A Bygone Era
by Bess Woodville
Summary: Isabel Neville, like most medieval women, is only known for her ancestry, marriage and descendants. As daughter of the second most powerful man in England and wife of the controversial George Duke of Clarence, her story must be a vivid one. Moreover, she was a woman living during one of the most tumultuous and fascinating times in history. This is her story. Told in multiple POVs.
1. Pledged to God: Countess Warwick

Note: Italics denote the POV character's thoughts. For example, in this chapter it is Isabel's mother Anne's thoughts.

Let me know what you think! Since not much is chronicled about her day-to-day life let me know about anything you would like me to write about or any POVs you would like to see.

Disclaimer: I do not own The White Queen nor the Sunne in Splendour and much less the history itself.

**5th September 1451**

As each gust of wind veered and swooped around the pointed turrets of Warwick castle, it would not surrender its strength before first claiming a tawny leaf from the hazel trees. The emerald blush of the castle grounds: the summer green that made the tableaux of the landscape ever more poignant just a few months ago, was now fading into a browner more lifeless hue.

Having seen twenty-five summers the countess was hardly a young lass at the cusp of womanhood. Her half-sister Margaret was six years younger than she when she bore her first child, Elizabeth even earlier. Labour was harder for those years past their first flowering. The pain in her back and hips seemed to sting her everytime she drew breath, her head felt uneasy on her shoulders as the exertion of the birth seemed to have pushed all the air out of her. However, there were none to pity her or lay at her feet praising her for the beautiful daughter she had just provided - the Earl of Warwick needed a son.

_Even my wretched ladies seem less eager to attend to me. Especially Martha. She thinks herself above me now for the whelp she bore her minor knight of a husband was a boy._

_'_Jesus wept' snapped Anne 'may I not be washed and given a morsel of food or even the child?'

A tremble hit Martha and Agnes before they bound down the castle stairs, one with a washbasin nestled under an arm and the other clutching at a gilded platter. Not since she was a little girl had Anne raised her voice beyond a ladylike drone. Those two did not know that, hence the agitation.

'Begging your pardon milady' said a breathless Agnes while handing her some bread and salt and Isabel, rosy and clean from the nursemaid's scrubbing.

Anne tilted her head letting her long auburn tresses fall over into the silver washbowl that Martha brought. While the labour of childbirth was scrubbed off her, she looked at the babe before her. Isabel slowly opened her eyes with a lack of enthusiasm so uncommon to a newborn babe. They were the phantasmagorical green of the turbulent sea.

_A beauty that would rally the men of the field to pick up swords and fight god himself it was not. _

Though not even an hour unto this world, Isabel's fair face had no suggestion of roundness, but was a slender oval. The small mouth had a suggestion of full lips and the thin tuft of hair on her head appeared flaxen - though Anne knew it would darken to Richard's chestnut brown in little time.

_A beauty of ice instead maybe. A Despenser, Montacute, Beauchamp and Neville fit for a king or at least a duke who would be immensely drawn to those features so like those of a statue. Let the golden haired, sky-eyed buxom jezebels catch the eyes of peasant boys and mercenaries. My Isabel shall rouse the very white rose with features that only generations of careful breeding since the age of the conquest could produce. Because with these she shows herself a daughter of Warwick - and what man would not rally behind that?_

At first Anne thought she could hear the pitter-patter of raindrops, but the sound grew sharper resembling a thundercloud heralding a Warwickshire late summer storm.

As the sound of the bailey's gravel amplified the countess' entire body shot up so fast that she could feel a surging pain through her spine. The kingmaker had arrived.

The years have proven that the lack of a heir did nothing to dull the earl's affections for his wife. As he leaped from his horse in one refined movement and took Anne into his arms, she once more felt like a newly wed bride greeting her betrothed outside Bisham Abbey.

She winced as he roughly pulled her into a arduous kiss marvelling at how deliciously crude this gesture was in contrast to his previous elegant one. _He may be an earl but he is also a soldier, and above that a man quenching his thirst after months on dry land. _And how could he not? At just a couple of inches below his height and still lithe and thin after just moments of childbirth Anne had the elegance of a water nymph. As Richard was stroking her cheeks he could not help but gaze in awe at the bonny eyes whose colour so much resembled the burnished emerald of her ancestral land.

'My son how fare he?' He asked with impatient excitement 'A strong lad is he not?'

Anne's chest tightened as if the gusts of wind from a few hours ago filled her lungs like saltwater would fill a drowning sailor's. _It is my entire fault. I should never have told him I knew I was carrying a son. All mothers share the same musings about their firstborn, they can not all be right._

'My Lord husband' she began adopting a more formal tone 'It is a girl and I have decided to call her Isabel after mother'

To her relief his smile reappeared. 'How fitting. The second Lady Isabel Neville'

Anne looked noticeably confused.

'Ah you do not know then? Isabel de Neville was the daughter and sole heiress of the Norman Geoffrey de Neville and wife of Robert Ritzmaldred a son of the Earls of Northumbria and Etheldred II' he grinned 'By the time Lionheart was crowned and fighting his wars in the foreign lands of the east, no one could then gainsay the Plantagenet dynasty so Geoffrey took the Neville name as his own to sit at the high tables of the Norman nobility'

Her husband was so taken up with his tales of Saxon princes and Gospatric of Northumbria that she had to lead him through the great hall and up the winding staircase like a mother hen guiding a sleep-heavy child to its bed. _I have done this before _she started to remember _I was nine and he seven and we were right here on those stairs. If truth be told my mother had invited Lady Alice to introduce her son as my betrothed in guise of a St Crispin's day luncheon invitation. By then I have perfected my curtsey and broke the nasty habit of handling my skirts, so I was finally considered worthy of social presentation. They bid me go show him all around the castle grounds and I played hostess thinking I had merely gained another playmate - though he might not have been so easily duped. To think where we are now._

In her apartments Isabel lay satisfied in her cot having just received her milk and with the nursemaid and Margaret hovering over her dotingly.

'Ah dear wife' proclaimed Richard 'it seems her and Margaret would make splendid companions - she had always wanted a sister'. With one small step he picks her up and kisses her on the forehead. The little girl giggled at that, her wide smile squeezing her cornflower blue eyes in satisfied lines.

_Ah yes the bastard daughter. Richard's little indiscretion. The newborn girl that greeted me at Middleham when he took me there so that we could appear as man and wife for the first time, before all our sisters, John and dear Henry- could it really have been eight years past? It feels like just yesterday I buried my dear brother._

Anne became a stone statue as Agnes was at work binding her straight auburn strands into a china blue crespine whose cauls were covered in wide copper netting to complement her Burgundian gown. The dress' saffron skirts were piercing beams of summer against the burnished autumn hue of the kirtle that latched tightly against her pert chest. The image of his darling wife rushing past the stony keep and into the courtyard seeming more woman than countess with her hair tumbling about her, must have made the earl's heart wrench with delight for this sun goddess of a woman that he now possessed. _I chose his favourite dress, but for that remark I shall choose the most matronly headdress - the one he hates. I shall take it off when he begs my pardon for all this inappropriate cooing over the bastard. _

With the classic lack of concern customary of a pre-occupied magnate, Richard did not notice his wife's minuscule act of defiance. Ever since the death of little Anne two years past, one of England's greatest earldoms had burdened her husband with its great expectations. Ever since parliament declared her sole heiress over her half-sisters, Richard's mind was constantly operating in tandem between the world before him and the world next morrow.

Thankfully he eventually sensed the tension surrounding him soon enough to act swiftly and pick up Isabel. The baby's eyes that only moments ago seemed to lay frozen in her face, lit up with an excitement that spread throughout her whole expression culminating in a joyful squirm as her father cradled her. Anne started to worry that the disappointment surrounding her sex had started to be rescepted by Isabel. She was now relieved to see the prevention of that.

'Dear god Anne' said Richard not tearing his eyes off Isabel 'What a jewel you have given me'

The heartfelt display thawed the ice that previously had a hold over Anne's heart as she let out a smiling sigh of relief that after months enraptured in the gripping power plays and intrigues of a royal court, Isabel did not disappoint.

'As beautiful as her lady mother' he continued before flashing a knight's dazzling smile. A smile devoid of vulgarity and void of mummery. A smile so chivalrous that it belonged in Camelot.

_He knows to appeal to my vanity the wicked man. Shame on him and his courtier's tricks._

Before she could damn him further he gently tugged at the hem of her sleeves, bringing her close enough to folder her in his arms with Isabel. She made her peace. 'Remind me, my sweet, what is the meaning of her Christian name?' He asked

'Pledged to God' Anne smiled 'As we all are'

'As we all must be. The war against France has weakened our king. That shrew of a maid of Orleans has marked the demise of any chance we may ever have to hold true power in France' he started complained vociferously._ And now he recommences. I find it passing incredible how nearly everything I say he takes as a prompt to indulge himself into one of his soliloquies. Today he bemoans England's fortunes in "the useless war."_ '... with any luck our recapturing of Bordeaux would at least render this war not a complete loss.'

'I hear Talbot shall be leading the command. If Gascony were taken back would that bring glory to-'

'The glory of the Lancastrian rose is of no concern to me Anne' Richard interrupted suddenly 'I need this wasteful war to cease so that my father may regain his men and deal with Percy once and for all.'

'For shame my Lord husband! You mean to tell me you're heart does not yearn for the chivalry of defeating the lily of France?' teased Anne playfully 'Does your heart not beat red for Lancaster and the quest of justice to fulfill their ancestral claims?'

Any other day Richard would respond to Anne's coyness the way she liked. It was one of their oldest customs. A couple of japes would be passed back and forth always leading to him jokingly proclaiming her a disobedient woman while slowly lifting her skirts and punishing her as if she were an unruly wench eagerly accepting what punishment her lord sees fit. Today something was different and Anne admittedly felt a little more than hurt.

'Nay wife. Red for the bear and ragged staff. The only cause I believe in. My father was right; this simpleton of a King is incapable of responding to our petitions. We are of royal blood and wardenship of the West March does make us far more capable of keeping Percy tenants in good support. If the Lancastrians of Westminster choose to preoccupy themselves with the lost cause which is the French crown I see no reason to continue blindly serving this line of usurpers.'

Anne froze. Though far from an emotional man, Richard usually delighted in being the cause of his own flights of fury. She would sit on the ledge by the solar windowpanes attentively as he would in his lectures damn half a dozen men and complain endlessly about anything between Beaufort's incompetence and the treacherous Percys. _The series after the Scottish wars was the most heartfelt._

Today's sermon was delivered in a frigid manner devoid of any of the four humours nor spite. It was the discourse of a man already deep in planning.

Choleric or not, Richard was ravenous, downing one slice of capon dipped in melted spiced butter after the other. His return was especially rejoiced by Cook Royce whose pregnant mistress' cravings for the mundane poussin and squab had left him with no opportunity for great culinary creative expression.

The Goyart tapestries on the soot grey walls of the great hall have been changed for the richer and more sombre Flemish tapestries. Her favourite depicted a fair haired maiden lying sombrely on the juniper grass guarded by maned lions. She pointed her mirror towards the unicorn as if to reveal to him his own magic, though his horn did not reflect in the mirror like the rest of his comely face. _Ah the scintillating nature of magic. God reveals himself is ways that elude most. She thought back to all the miracles she thought she had witnessed in her girlhood. _Blue roses appearing in winter, the butterfly with transparent wings, even the draft and light from the glass window working in conjunction, turning her to the appropriate page and shining blue light upon the bible passage so her governess would not realise she was not attentive...

'Ah yes, do you like them Anne? They were part of the Dowager Duchess of Bedford's dowry, given to the crown in part payment for the dishonour that was her illicit marriage' Richard said after finally lifting his head from the plate

_'_The lady Jacquetta led quite a scandal' started Anne 'How is she fareing shacked up with her squire?'

'Last I heard he was made Baron Rivers'

'A fanciful title'

'Still not one a mere country squire merits. I highly doubt it will ever bring in the income to sufficiently maintain the widow of Prince John in the luxury to which she grew accustomed.'

'The luxury she grew accustomed to as the daughter of Peter of Luxembourg would prove to be the more insurmountable standard for Woodville to reach.'

'What are you trying to say my lady?' Richard began teasing 'Do our English comforts no longer satisfy yours or the Duchess' lofty needs?'

'I only say, husband, that just as the Italian duchies are rife with classical art, bards singing dulcet tones and those technologies - whatever they would be, Duke Philip has his own cohort of artists and inventors. The 'Burgundian School' is so accomplished our very own John Dunstaple has joined their ranks...' Richard's fatigue was waning his attention until his wife stood up from the oak long table and spun around. The flashes of the yellow silk at the skirts extending out with each movement and encircling the amber coloured kirtle as if she were the sun itself come down from the heavens to grace and bring calm to her particularly agitated earl. '...and this.' Anne finished referring to the Burgundian fashions. For dramatic effect she pointed her elbows high to present the same pomegranate beautiful pattern adornishing the trimmings of the long jagged sleeves - and as he later noticed - the lining of the deep v-neckline of the dress.

'Jesus wept' Richard exclaimed 'What could have possibly procured this possessed drawing me away from noticing the beauty of your gown - for so long?'

By then all the food was dispensed with and the hall was clear of servants. In the privacy of the ancient great hall and enraptured with the smell of fresh rushes the Earl of Warwick drew his wife onto his lap. Anne happily obliged as eagerly as a moth to a flame and threw her arms around his neck tangling her long fingers in his shoulder-length woodland brown hair as she kissed him. Improper public displays like this were a rarity and almost never passed between the Earl and Countess of Warwick, but betwixt the lengthy separation, a wife's adoration and splendid supper neither could help themselves.

_I see Isabel's birth has not made him wroth at me. Perchance he will one day grow to love her as much as I do._

As if capable of reading her mind Richard drew her in even closer for a longer more ardent kiss. _Not the polite type a knight would give his elusive ladylove._

'No verbalisation of mine could ever express my gratitude for your birthing of such a perfect babe, I shall love Isabel dearly as others love their sons'

'God will give us a son soon my love, I promise you that...' Anne started

'Even if he does not, lest we forget the running tradition of female heiresses in both our lines' Richard gently said while his fingers traced the hem marking the end of Anne's kirtle and the tender skin above her breasts. It was no secret that her vast inheritance served as a point of pride for her husband; few knew it was also a aphrodisiac for him. 'The finest men in the kingdom will vie for her hand in marriage'.

Anne nestled her weary head in the crook of his neck adjusting so the sharp corner of her caul do not dig into his neck before saying 'She is too young to even contemplate such a thing.' She was playing the doting mother. _I would not admit to anyone that just hours after her birth I had been lining up a list of names in my head. Most women would think that only shrews and wicked mothers work in that way. But these women were not born to be heiresses like I was and Isabel is. Her and I are of a different breed._

'Margaret of Anjou is taking very young girls into her service nowadays. Jacquetta Rivers' eldest Elizabeth had been appointed lady-in-Waiting since she was just ten and three'

'It never ceases to amaze me how many lives those Woodvilles have' Anne chortled 'not even the biggest scandal of Christendom could bar them from the court or king's favour.'

'For all of Lady Rivers' ambitions this is the highest her or any of her brats could ever rise to. For all her fabled beauty, last I heard Elizabeth is pre-contracted to marry a modest Leicester knight like her father. Now just imagine the great marriages Isabel will have to choose from, when the time comes for her to be brought to court' said Richard

'Just imagine' replied Anne wistfully 'the greatest lady of the land - second only to the Rose of Anjou herself.'


	2. The Neville Sisters: Lady Anne Neville

The Neville Sisters - Lady Anne Neville

16th June 1465

'Isabel has elegance and wit and beauty' said a sulky nine-year old Anne putting emphasis on each 'and' as if to make the three descriptors seem like a dozen 'what is left for me lady mother?'

The white summer sun was beating off the translucent wings of the dragonflies in fleeting flashes glimmering red, blue and yellow through the stained glass of the castle window. Anne watched in awe as they were gracefully dancing around the surface of the clear pond like a group of dancers creating ripples with every inclination of their wings. Everything in Wensleydale appeared dazzlingly bright today, even yesterday's jade grass now neared celadon while the sky was a warm celeste. In the solar of Middleham castle, Anne was sat on her mother's lap while she was diligently braiding her youngest's whispy long hair.

'You have a great gift for piety and loyalty...' started the Countess. The child did not act impressed. All nine year old girls were interested in was being Felices rescued by a Guy of Warwick, just like all boys at that age wanted to be Sir Gawain.

The Countess wanted to box the ears of the nurses that have indoctrinated the impressionable children so. Isabel and Anne's fanaticism began when their father, recently returned from the court of Louis XI, brought a manuscript of John Lydgate's 'Guy of Warwick' for his two girls. Anne had to admit that the illuminations were beautiful down to the gilded details on the Lady Felice's hair and the outline of every capital letter at the start of the page. But Richard knew that such stories would not beguile his cynical wife and he himself only saw the book valuable in so far as it served to further distinguish the nobility of the Beauchamp line and make his daughters smile. Isabel and Anne were predictably over-joyous to have such phantasmagoric legends run through their blood especially as in England, Guy of Warwick was considered St George's son.

'Piety and loyalty are not values to be sneered at, Anne' cautioned the Countess. Her husband, now also Earl of Salisbury, had instructed the household to foster a spirit of loyalty between the Neville girls and the York boys. Anne knew that her mother must have noted her rapport towards the youngest: Richard Duke of of Gloucester.

Anne was now peering out of the window, beyond the glassy pond, towards Isabel. Her honey-coloured hair had now darkened to a long ebony mane even darker than the chestnut brown of their father's. Today the strands peaking beneath her turquoise henin appeared to absorb all the sun's rays in their magnificence. Not yet fourteen, she had the tall willowy silhouette of a nymph. Elegant and dainty whereas Anne appeared fragile and childlike.

The Earl in his ornate scarlet doublet appeared in the tableaux. He was laughing, taking Isabel in his arms before cupping her cheeks and looking down at her adoringly while she dazzlingly smiled back _like the sycophant she is_.

_When he goes to court, Father always takes his leave from her last and separately. Look how long his smile lingers when he takes her hands. His favourite daughter the beautiful Isabel, the intelligent Isabel, the vain Isabel. I never wanted to know anything more than the details of their conversation._

As the countess was finishing Anne's braided crown she began noticing that her daughter was still not appeased. She took on a lighter tone and pointed out that Isabel did not have hair like hers.

Anne peared into the looking glass by the vanity and a slender fair face framed by a sea of coppery waves the colour of a fox's tail peered back at her. A colour far brighter than her mother's auburn._ Isabel may be impossibly graceful but my hair is more similar to the new Queen's._

All her father's men hated the woman who claimed the place beside the handsome York king. As soon as news of her father's humiliation over not knowing of the match became the talk of the kingdom as did talk of the Woodville Queen's beauty. _They say she is the most beautiful woman in the british isles with the heavy-lidded eyes of a dragon. But, I also hear she is near her thirtieth year with already two sons from her previous husband: a knight. _She was nothing like the blue-eyed virgin princesses in Anne's fairytales who were all closer to Isabel's age. _Father also told me that she had large black eyes like drops of tar. A witch's eyes._

'What do you think?' Smiled her mother beckoning Anne to look in the mirror once more. Anne's hair was coifed in an elaborate braided coronet encircling her small head in thin serpentine plaits culminating in a voluminous halo at her crown. A hairstyle befitting a lady mere months before being considered old enough to wear a headress. A hairstyle also appropriate for what was becoming the hottest summer afternoon in years.

'Tis beautiful lady mother. Thank you so so much' Anne thanked with a wide satisfied grin.

'Now off with you. Your Richard must be wandering where you are- ' began the Countess. Anne, the impatient little girl that she was rushed off before Anne could add '-and your cousin Clarence shall also be visiting us in a fortnight. I will fetch Bridget so you can practice your greeting courtesies'

Any other day her mother would call after her and chide her for her impertinence. Today, however, the aerial glide of the enamoured singing swallows waltzing above the field of blanche ramsons, alternating in their emissions of white flashes with the pond may have soothed even the heart of the most proprietous woman in England, which was witnessing this beautiful display from her seat at the edge of the heavy-coloured solar.

It had been years since Middleham Castle saw George of Clarence. While the shy thirteen year old pup Richard would remain at Wensleydale to complete his training in the art of chivalry, George, now a man of sixteen was summoned to court to assume his princely status and enthral those who in him saw the purest of the white roses of York.

_Little do they know that he needed those two more years at Middleham like a sword needed a scabbard. He has all my father's skill but none of his humility. _Anne had just began to remember George's incessant interruption of Mr Guffryn's apparent 'lack of flourish in his pronounciation' as he was trying to teach them latin conjugations.

_Isabel's constant tittering could not have been particularly dissuasive. _

As the palfrey's canter dropped to a trot, Anne started to see the wicked smile etched onto George's lips. With thirty attendants trailing after him in emerald livery, the whole spectacle resembled more a snake than a princely procession.

The five of them were stood in front of the keep like a set of lead painted dolls, their jewels and silks glittering in the hot June sun even in the cold shadow of the ashen battlement. A silkened hand squeezed the Duke of Gloucester's.

'I think he will scare Lovell. I do not want that' whispered Anne

'He is not here to stay' smiled Richard squeezing her hand comfortingly 'What have you truly against him Anne?'

_Richard always knows what I mean to say and when I conceal it. He was born with the sageness of Aunt Cecily. Why was none imparted to me? Perhaps it only works if you are directly descended..._

'He will steal Issy from me. Then you will go when the king wants you for battle and I will be all alone up here with mother making shirts for the peasantry...'

'There will be no wars.' interjected Richard curtly

Anne was taken aback by the silent force of that response. It took her a moment of contemplation to realise how no matter how brightly the sunne in splendour shone in London, it was still obscured by the darkness of the shadow cast by Sandal Castle. _Richard lost the only parent that resembled him and the brother that proved an adequate figure upon whom he could heap all his hopes and ideals onto. I merely lost an uncle and grandfather that I was far too young to know._

'No there will not' replied Anne gently 'Father will not allow it'

Isabel was beginning to take notice of their whispering, but before she had time to admonish the pesky little pair or nosily demand to be told the subject matter George's retinue passed the Barbican and were entering the Bailey - close enough for George to notice if Isabel's face were twisted in pettiness. Anne noticed her sister's statuesque composure and drew her own hand from Richard's hold letting the rose-coloured sleeve slip back past her palm.

_Let George see that I am now nearly a woman grown who no longer needs to wear soft soles on her pouline to feel when the hem of the skirt overruns her pace._

As the palfrey's gait came to a halt Anne could not help but notice the resemblance between its mane and Isabel's own hair. With the grace of a York, the rider dropped from the saddle as if in a controlled slide. Anne noticed that he barely grew since last year and was still hovering below her father's height. _So Edward has the lion's share of height in this family while Richard: the wisdom. I wonder what George has..._

He was beaming like Anne had never seen him before. She knew that she did not need to turn her head to see if Isabel was blushing.

'Waarrrwick' he bellowed as he let the Earl

grab him into the gruff hug of men familiarised by the strongest of glues - kinship during times of partisanship.

'Your grace we are honoured to have you here after such a long absence' declared the Countess gracefully 'Isabel, Anne and of course- your brother Richard'

The Duke of Clarence merely tousled the younger's ebony curls as if he had not indeed come to visit his younger brother. He flashed the women a smile each rising in brightness saving Isabel's for last. He stunned all save for her father for whom he queerly displayed a sobre knowing simper. The Earl returned the look like a looking glass.

The girls were being dressed for dinner in their finest gowns. Isabel's new Burgundian gown was made of an indigo velvet poached from her Despencer ancestress' dresses. The fall of Byzantium having deprived the west of the luxuries of such a dye, made the colour's unattainability all the more attractive to Isabel.

After constant badgering Anne was finally permitted to wear her first and only henin to dinner - its lincoln green contrasting the girlish hue of her carnation gown. She liked it well enough, but its flower-pot shape only served to emphasise how short she was compared to Isabel who was enveloped in the sea of pearly silk emanating from her butterfly henin.

Isabel shakily sat on the side of the bed, the woven scarlett damask's artichoke pattern scrunching under the weight of the heavy silk of her gown and nearly enfolding her from the sides. She looked lost in thought. _Like a maiden in a sea of blood._

'My Isabel! if I had a room like this I would gladly languish here until the end of my days' exclaimed Anne

Isabel was not listening.

George as an honoured guest was given the Earl's grand room displacing all the assigned sleeping arrangements leading to Richard of Gloucester having to sleep in Anne's room and Anne with Isabel. _I must have been a babe the last time I shared a bed with Isabel. How the years pass._

'I wonder if George still likes me. I thought he had come here to see us and Richard, but just after all the niceties were dispensed with, he appeared to have come here for father only' Isabel said in a hushed tone.

Anne knew that she was not the ideal recipient of Isabel's ruminations, but with Margaret swiftly married off at their mother's behest, she had to learn to make-do with the Anne's companionship.

_Is she really talking to me? Awaiting an answer from me? Well firstly I do not remember George particularly liking her-. No I have to say something quickly and now or she will never confide in me again._

'Oh Issy, he had not seen you properly in more than a year and is still not used to the woman you have become' Anne started 'Besides there is so much for him and father to discuss, what with all the news at court and the new queen... I hear she is a witch and has used dark magic to make King Edward besotted with her'

'This is possibly why father has not arranged for us to be her ladies. He fears for us' said Isabel pensively

'Because he loves us' finished Anne

To her delight she saw Isabel starting to smile. She never understood why this gave her so much peace. _Perhaps because I am rarely their cause, she reserves them all for father. _The half-a-decade difference had been used as a reason for Isabel to disregard this child of a sister who having not even bled yet, could hardly understand the woes of a 'grown woman' like her.

'Can you keep a secret Anne?' Asked Isabel

Anne eagerly nodded, her doe eyes widening into two brown conkers.

'Mother said that father will persuade the king to give me George and you Richard'

announced Isabel hopefully 'But you must not breathe a word of this to anyone'

_Richard? I like him well - he stood up for me when Rob Percy mocked me for crying when father shot the deer for whom I was bringing berries from the kitchen everyday. He brings me bellflowers to press in my books._ But quiet and dark, he seemed the farthest thing from the adventurous gallant Ferrex - he was rather a sombre King Arthur. This would not have vexed her so much had she not known that the princeliest of the three sons of York had been snapped up for Isabel.

Anne nodded her head vacantly as the differing strands of emotions tangled in her head in a web of thoughts irreconcilable for a girl of her youth. _Perhaps if I continue shaking my head they will somehow rearrange themselves into neat rows like father's battlefield arrangements._

Isabel now looked to the looking glass that tonight was polished to shine as clearly as the steel of a shield. Her hand reached for the sandalwood scent and dabbed the last drops of the scent on her wrists and rosy declitage.

'As much as father loves us, his eyes only see the good that being royal duchesses would do us. His hogging of George leaves me with no chances of having him fall in love with me' asserted Isabel

'But Issy, even I know that his feelings are of little consequence. He will marry you because father put King Edward on the throne and so he must do as he says' said Anne

'But Annie I do not want that. I want to be loved like the King does the queen' Isabel said pleadingly 'She is a common-born widow so surely I deserve the same if not better'

Before Anne could say anything, Agnes' pinched face peered through the door to announce that the Neville sisters' attendance at dinner was now sought.

Centuries upon centuries have amassed the Beauchamp and Neville clans a lofty collection of wall-hangings. From the dainty cane-coloured silk tapestries of the orient to the magnificent arrases of the Low Countries portraying courtly love jux-ta-posed with French tapestries depicting noblemen at hunt for the unicorn. _I have never seen so odd an arrangement before. Perchance father just desired to display his wealth to Clarence and nothing more. Perchance, it could be more._

The great hall was a whirl of flashes of jewelled colours so intoxicating that Anne thought she would go cross-eyed. The spanish-grey walls that were peering through the fabrics, and the faded clay tiles that lay unnoticed on the floor seemed so dull and dark in comparison that so far her girlhood years were passed in a dungeon.

Anne made sure to take notice of George's face when her and Isabel walked in to gauge her new brother-in-law's feelings for her sister. To her disappointment he looked at Isabel but despite the gallant smile his eyes did not seem to match it nor discount it nor did the gracious words that he spoke when he warmly greeted them.

'There is a seat here if you would like it, Isabel' gestured George as the party advanced to the painted long table.

With a rustle of her indigo skirts, Isabel biddably claimed her seat besides her secret betrothed. Anne was sat across them.

'How do you like Warwick castle, my lord?' asked Isabel channelling their mother.

'I am liking it very well Isabel - it is good to be back' replied George as he clasped her hand between his under the table. Anne peered at him eyes widened, shocked by this physical act of affection that was by no means meant as a display for father. She tried to discern his face - George's eyes of hazel and honey were wide and the light within flashed and shifted like quick-sand. They tell me nothing. _His eyes are generally very large. The largest I know, and for this he appears perpetually fixated and perplexed. _

Isabel was laughing now clearly entranced by her dinner companion. Anne could not blame her, for all his eccentricities, he was one of the comeliest men she had ever seen with shoulder-length tawny hair that fell in curls framing a fair visage outlined by sharp cheekbones.

_But I shall have Richard. _Anne thought emptily. _No. _She corrected herself._ And I *shall* have Richard and become a royal duchess equal to my sister and for that I ought to be grateful._


	3. Whose Name Begins with G: Lord Clarence

**26 June 1465**

The ride beyond the Yorkshire Dales was more than any reasonable man could endure and George's spirit waned with each passing of the moon. Now arrived, he was glad to be relieved of his riding habit. The summer sun looked upon him, setting his glossy green silk aglow, elevating the golden weaved threads to a glimmer and his persona to a countenance so divine, Paris himself would have payed homage had they encountered.

Now, his cousin of Warwick requested his presence for a private audience before the dinner and George despite his wishes could not feign ignorance to himself. _After all the noble blood of the land has been mingled with the Rivers, he intends to woo me himself, for Isabel_. He set his cup of Rumney wine on the painted table of his chamber wondering what possessed Warwick to have his wines brought from Wallachia of all places. _Mayhaps he has even befriended the Impaler himself. There is not a road in christendom left unexplored by the shadows of his ambitions._

Realising it was nigh time he appeared for the audience, he made his way past the stony winding stairs of what was unofficially called the Guy de Warwick tower and across the gleaming inner court, beset with a sea of jade shards bobbing to the wind in a biddable manner, until he reached the threshold of The Maiden tower. A wry chuckle escaped George. The choice of meeting amused him nearly as much as his lodging thematic allusions to the ancient Neville tale of Guy of Warwick and The elusive and noble Lady Felice did not elude him. While awaiting his receipt, he wondered whether ballads still held court in Isabel's heart.

A servant he did not recognise before beckoned him into a suffocating chamber of cream and steel where George to his surprise was faced with the Countess of Warwick sitting beside her husband, as if they were a king and queen holding court. _So this is how royalty ought to look_. George thought back to his brother's court and how the new queen's striking beauty and liveliness did not sit well with the austere and mystical nature expected of one who claimed the sacred place next to an anointed king. The Countess, however, appeared as if a part of the room as a whole, as would the queen of heaven in a nativity tableaux.

As he knelt for each of their blessings reminiscent of a bygone era of peace and childhood, he rose with a solemn smile. To his discomfort the Earl and Countess did not avail the room of its stilted atmosphere with their faces remaining taut like sheets of ice.

'George we are honoured to be having you here again and with us for near a fortnight, truly much time has passed since you were under our guardianship and a mere lad in the courtyard sparring with play swords' said the Earl neutrally 'however the time has come for me to address an issue that we had near no time to discuss while at court.'

_What in the heavens could he be referencing? I do not remember exchanging anything but pleasantries with him. Best keep my mouth shut and refrain from guessing or else I may be held to have had expressed my willingness to carry out something I would ne'er do._

The Earl was waiting expectantly. George could not help himself and blurted: 'My sister Margaret is arranging a marriage between myself and Mary of Burgundy, which she hopes will result in a double alliance between our realms when her own betrothal to Charles I is underway'. _Just to think! Margaret and I living in the most marvellous court in Europe and when the Duke's recklessness resolves in death, her and I can rule the Low Countries like two kings._ ' And so, before you ask me to wed Isabel, I tell you that I cannot regardless of what you may think you have heard me say at court.'

The Earl let out a full-throated laugh so strong that his whole body appeared to be shaking. Even the Countess stifled a chuckle behind her long ringed fingers. Half a minute went by and the Earl's head was snapped back in roaring laughter revealing the roof of his mouth, which in this moment was opened so wide it resembled a scarlet cave.

George could not understand what was so funny.

'George, I am not your doting nursemaid concerned with your heart or an up-jumped merchant who is trying to seduce you with sweetmeats to cajole you into a coupling with my daughter, by entrapping you into my home.' The Earl began. Laughter still seemed to coat his voice like sugary water hiding overlying vinegar. The incredulous tone denoted an arrogance such that it arose an eyebrow even in the Earl's wife whose reputation for haughtiness cast a shadow that outran even the borders of her own lands.

George looked at the Countess expectantly - the woman who he loved very nearly as much as his own mother. The woman who never derided him for fidgeting with his book of hours during mass, the woman who applied salve to his wounds when he would constantly fall out of bed and vouched for him that they were earned on the sparring field, in order to shield him from Rob and Thomas Parr's cruel derision and the potential of Isabel's incisiveness. He peared down at the forest green of his doublet sleeve in shame. Shame for holding the Countess anywhere near in affection to his own wimple-wearing mother, whose frankness and coldness, though honest, rarely elicited charm.

'And what you are trying to say cousin is that it is I that should be beseeching you to give your Isabel in marriage to me. That I was invited here to offer myself up in exchange for an honour much above me' George's face was puffing up into a crimson that stood out markedly against the cold watery colours of his doublet and cape. 'You forget that though you may have made my brother king, you did not make me a man, and judging by what a king he turned out to be and-'

'And what?' The Earl prodded on

'-and what is in fact the truth about his and my diverging lineages' George's voice coming out as a strangled whisper 'we both know the truth and how the divine order has been disturbed'

The Earl nodded knowingly, satisfied that he had extracted the confession he needed from his young cousin at his expense.

'Therefore, I would find it odd that you find it amusing that I would be in good standing to marry the future young Duchess of Burgundy' George continued his voice gaining courage 'You dare insinuate that your offer of Isabel would be charitable and that it is I that should haggle for this honour, when dear cousin it is you who should be humbled by such a match'.

Having confirmed his own suspicion that George personally subscribed to that old rumour, the Earl then knew how to proceed further. He was about to express his proposal in full but seemed interrupted by the Countess who shot up as if in shock. The glare from the gilded edges of her caul burned in the hot summer sun, and indignantly she said 'You would be calling your mother a whore! The one who sacrificed her life for you after Ludlow to see you safely spirited away to the Low Countries... She would have been queen, George!'

George was at a loss for words. The scales weighing up the two factors in his head were shifting in positions like two poles of a weathervane spinning frantically in a violent storm.

'Veritas Lux Mea, cousin' said a solemn George crossing himself. _Since I was a ninny and blurted that out, I would do well to act ashamed by it. I shall play George the hero who bears the sacrifice of his mother's dishonour on his weary shoulders and accepts the crown despite the love he bears for his brother._

The Countess who, like most women, raised her defences upon the suggestion of a fellow women's dishonour - not for want of defending proud Cis' honour but her own - was now reverting to her typically restrained composure and peacefully reclaimed her seat, while the Earl let out a resounding 'hmm'.

George who just now realised that he had been standing throughout this entire encounter, made for the other side of the chamber for a heavy oak chair._Mayhaps I should have demanded Warwick give me his seat in deference and as an apology for keeping me on my feet and knees. _Instantly regretting not doing that George stopped midway and took a seat on the chair he dragged with him.

'George' began the Earl calmly 'It seems our minds are ad idem, do you recall the feast where you were made Earl of Richmond and John Woodville bested you at hawking?'

George nodded from the chair across the chamber, his previous bout of anger subsiding into a tired acquiescence.

'I recall asking you whether you thought you could do better as king. Well do you remember?' asked the Earl.

'I remember that too'

'I could make you king. With you on the throne we could cleanse this country's government of the Woodville filth, restore piety to the court and mend our ties to France. Between us, what Edward did well was all my merit. If I were to be placed beside you as counsel, we could ensure that your reign would be at least an improvement on the current state of affairs'

'Then you would recall cousin, that I gave no answer to your question about wanting to be king.'

'You are too modest George' said the Earl in an a tone so sweet it was resoundingly artificial. 'I know your brother better than you do, the years between your ages made sure of that. I can tell you hand on heart that at six and ten years he had less of his wits about him than you now do. Besides if what you said about his paternity be true, then we would make god angry by failing to act'.

'Now now cousin, if you would put me on the throne in hopes of restoring your French alliance I regret to tell you that I would never allow it. You know very well why. Just as I, you lost a brother and father to that bitch of Anjou and the latter's head 'till four years past still stood severed atop the gates of York next to my own father's' George realised that his tone was rising in aggression at a rate he could no longer contain, much like a wild horse who after daring to descend a steep hill could no longer calm its trot, descending into a grassy grave.

To his surprise, the Earl let out a melancholic sigh leading The Countess to instinctively place both of her hands over his. The crane white of her embroidered cotton chemise fell over both their hands like a bandage and it looked as though her touch was blocking a bleeding open wound.

The Earl's voice now lowered to a solemn murmer, so much so that even George felt his fiery temper extinguish. 'Now George, that is precisely the reason we must mend our relations with France. Margaret is but a distant relative of the French queen and given how France consented to me joining Edward and Bona of Savoy in marriage - his very own sister-in-law -, it is clear that the Spider King is eager to forge new alliances that would suit him better. Leaving that aside, you can now see why I laughed at your suggestion of Mary of Burgundy, for what man would want to be a mere consort of a Duchess when he can be King of England? And if that is what you shall become you can now see how a marriage with the heiress of Edward's future ally would be quite impossible'

George had been flattered by his favourite sister's concern in suggesting that marriage, but in truth, he was loyal to that match for his sister's sake not for some idealisation of the future Duchess who was after all, still years away from her own flowering. _Her father still entertains my dastardly brother-in-law Henry of Exeter at his court and with his own Lancastrian heritage, he would be far more likely than even the French to turn to Lancaster. Besides, what would I want with an eight year old bride?_

'I would not marry with Bona of Savoy or any other French Princess. I respect your logic but I cannot be bound to a woman who shares any kinship with the she-wolf that wrecked havoc over my life since I came into this earth' stated George

George suspected the Earl would arrogantly state that France would not give one of its daughters to a second son like him as an indemnity - a gamble too high even for the most compulsive gambler - which Louis XI was anything but.

He instead said: 'I know that George. It simply will not do. All you need is here in England - a wife of a family even older than the Plantagenets whose loyalties would run with yours'

'I know what you will suggest and I would marry Isabel, cousin. But not like this. I would not be your pawn like Edward was and I will not have her imposed upon me from above as if you would be my superior, ingratiating my humble person with so lofty a marriage' said George

'My apologies George, if my tone and actions were conducive to you believing me haughty. It is you who is the true heir of Lionel, Duke of Clarence, you would be our king and I your counsel but nothing more - I would not have thought you to accept any different. Now Isabel I recommend unto you for more than her blood. My finest daughter has the bearing of a queen from near birth and is well-read and wise beyond her years. If I may say so at risk of betraying her secret: she took a liking to you long before a marriage has even reached our minds and if I may be so bold, I believe you have noticed that too and care for her affection more than a jot'

'Indeed cousin, I have always remarked her beauty and despite our familiarity, she still retains an otherworldliness to her that captivates and assures me, that in her, I may find the solace needed to keep my wits about me on the road to kingship' said George already starting to alight from his chair in order to advance towards the Earl and Countess to ritualistically perform the hand-on-knee proposal for their daughter's hand.

After once again receiving both their blessings and being brought up by the Countess to be embraced and kissed by her painted red lips as a son-in-law, he added 'I do not know how strong her feelings are towards me, but at this point I could imagine no one else as my bride. If there ever was a plot concocted since our infancies to bring us together you may congratulate yourselves on your successes. I may not love her yet, but I am sure I shall forthwith. But cousin, you may count on my love and your daughter's happiness as long as she be my wife and you do not perpetually dangle her fortune in my face to humble me, nor turn her into my keeper or a spy against me. Are we understood?'

The Earl and Countess nodded at what seemed both a reasonable and achievable request.

'Do invite her to sit with you at dinner tonight, we have arranged a banquet honouring your return and perhaps you may be the one to tell her of your marriage. I am sure she would be joyous to hear it from you.' said the Earl while the Countess smirked discreetly.

Exhausted after passing through more emotions in an afternoon than he would have in a week, George straightened his Scarlett hose which had wrinkled from all the twitching and tensing. He sauntered off out of the chamber and through the hall leading into the bailey, convinced he held his own as much as any man could against persons as formidable as the Earl and his Countess. 

After the banquet George followed Isabel at her father's behest out into the the courtyard of Middleham castle, away from the prying Neville eyes, yet still close enough that upon a twitch of the thread they would both fall back into their palms.

Isabel who had been so charming throughout dinner was now growing shyer with each miniscule step she daintily took. Her indigo skirts flashed in a dying opulence as the Wensleydale sunset befell the land in all its summer glory, and Isabel as well, as the snowy silk of her henin now appeared a pale orange complementing the warmth of her flushed cheeks where before the wine, were of custom icely pale.

George wondered at the how the hues of those northern lands were subject to the reign of the sun, which instead of setting at this hour as it would in the south, it merely turned all around it darker and in many ways deeper.

Finding it to be a fine time to stop this treck, George beckoned Isabel to sit by him. She happily obliged but said not a word as her gaze remained transfixed on the the juniper-coloured grass below them.

'How did you find the feast my lord of Clarence? Father knew how much you love venison and Malmsey wine so he was very glad to have procured them for your arrival' she said courteously yet still not sparing him even a look.

'It was more than I could hope it to be' he smiled

'I am glad of it, my lord'

George ever the impatient man, decided to urge the conversation forwards. He gently yet decisively reached for both her hands turning her ever so slightly towards him. 'Isabel, it is not my lord of Clarence but George, why would you impose such formalities on our correspondance?'

To his surprise she did not flinch, but rather seemed to expect this sudden gesture of closeness. This he found passing strange. Yet through it all she still feigned a degree of wide-eyed shyness.

'I suppose you are right... George. You and I are well-acquainted. You just seem so much changed that you appear to me a man of the court now, not the boy who used to play practical jokes on Dickon and Margaret'.

'Ah yes, remember when I tied Richard's bootlaces to the stirrups and when he tried to canter, the horse threw him into the lake?'.

'I felt wicked for laughing, but in truth I laughed so hard that day, that I gave myself a stomach knot'.

'We were always the most wicked ones, I think'.

'Me?' questioned Isabel, smiling and palm on chest as if shocked by such a revelation. _The flirt in her is returning, I see._

'Yes, you. Remember when you thought it would be amusing to trap a frog inside Margaret's salve. The poor thing decomposed in there and it was months until she realised that at the bottom of her pot, lay the entrails of that poor animal'.

'Now that I think of it, my transgressions were much more ungodly than yours. Oh George, now you have made me feel bad for the poor frog. I had nearly forgotten!' She said warmth slipping into her tone like a hot spring over a snowy valley.

'Yes but you were always shrewd enough not to get caught'. He added with a wistfulness at the tip of his tongue.

Another cloud of silence reigned over them once more. Isabel's hands gently slipped from his hold like a released yard of silk yielded by a snagging branch. Try as he might he could not for the life of him read her. Even when she gently turned more towards him revealing her thoughtful yet downcast green eyes. _The colour of foam that would gather at the seashore after a tempest. _When she lifted her gaze, it focused on the setting sun, that was now an angry red. She looked with a fixation that he found gave her an enigmatic bearing and when the day showed signs of turning to night, the light made her appear sager and older with each blink of an eye. _A gravity that no girl so young had any right to possess. _

'George' she began in a colder tone, simply clasping her hands. The wine's effects are fading I see. 'I am not blind. Father and you are clearly making some plans and if as you said we are beyond formalities than you ought to tell me, please'.

Startled, he turned closer to her. _Young as she may be, the girl is perceptive, and just like her father she never voices her suspicions but forces the other to impart first. Surely a trick he taught her_. It suddenly struck George how different it is to be a girl born with no brothers and one of the wealthiest heiresses in the land. Out of his sisters, even Margaret, now appeared a naïve maiden compared to Isabel. England may have been full of Nevilles but Isabel was the last of the Beauchamps and so, seemed to have been forced into learning as much of the ways of the world as a lady's education permitted, lest she herself become a valuable pawn.

He decided to play her own game 'What made you think so?'

'Father's curse is his booming voice and I could often overhear his conversations with mother over the last months. To my disadvantage the stone in the walls would muffle most of his speech, yet I could still make out enough. Your visit to Middleham was also after little more than a week after father himself returned from court and what is it that you must discuss here but could not discuss there or entrust in a letter?' She said with perfect indirectness and allusion.

The pause that ensued made her eyes widen so much so that they could nearly Have been said to reveal emotion in them. The shifting hazel in George's large eyes, however, betrayed exactly what they thought.

'George-' started Isabel as the pieces were falling into place in her head. One thought crystallising after another with icy clarity.

Before letting her speak he quickly enveloped her in his arms, so swiftly that his velvet cap and her butterfly henin half-slipped from their heads. Isabel readjusting the pins gained him enough time to decide what he would reveal to her first.

Quick ivory hands deftly resettled the headdress atop her head in all its crown-like glory. She now expectantly stared up at him with dilated pupils and he could feel her pulse quicken with every second.

'Isabel, we are to be married. Does this content you? As soon as I return to court I shall ask King Edward's permission and you shall be my wife, the Duchess of Clarence' said George tenderly. He could feel a smile grow on his face.

To his surprise she seemed neither surprised nor perfectly content.

'I must confess I expected you to be more attentive in your proposal. You ask me to be your wife as though we were strangers and this proposal were arranged with nothing of us within it' she said sulkily

_Ah yes of course. There is the Isabel, I knew who worshipped at Chrétien de Troyes' feet and who believed her life to be pre-ordained to follow the Vulgate cycle. Who then was the astute calculating woman whose existence I witnessed earlier, who appeared to have out-grown her girlish fantasies? Which one is the one I mean to make my wife? What must I say to appease both these women?_

George gently broke away from their closeness and drew her hand high enough for the heavy indigo of fabric at her sleeve to straighten from its previous bunch revealing the ruby-red silk hidden within it. Her hand eventually reached the level of his head, which he now bowed in deference mimicking a knightly gesture. _I have shown enough deference for a lifetime today, for my own dignity's sake I will not kneel again today._

'Isabel, would you have me be the Lancelot to your Guinevere? A love that would be forbidden, a union illicit? A love as destructive as my brother's Union with that witch? In _De Arte Honeste Amandi_, Capellanus wrote to Walter that such love must be shunned in favour of god. The love I offer you is one that complies with god's will, our union is purposeful for both you and I have felt since our childhood that we would be together. Of the same families, of the same house of the same nobility... the divine order is the producer of our love and it is right and true for that. Although a defiant love that would divide a kingdom betwixt individuals of different ranks would be more in tune with your romances, our marriage is godly and made loftier by it and would unite rather than divide' he said nervously as he became more and more aware with each word, how uncoherent his rebuttal was becoming.

'My eyes have seen enough seasons change for me to know that a husband would be chosen for me for his blood, not win my heart and hand through deads of valour. I only wish to feel that the love in our marriage be true and not my father forcing your hand and you settling' said Isabel in a slightly concerned tone. 'I am touched that your proposed to me yourself, I just wish there would be some way for me to know that I may ever be more than your Duchess'

'You would be my queen, my sweet' he said with all the charm he could muster. _poor choice of words, George, poor choice of words._

'So it is true then!' cried Isabel withdrawing 'Father and you mean to depose the king. I was the consideration for your contract. Truly George, when mother told me I would marry you I thought that beyond it being a marriage righteous for our ranks that it would be a marriage for us too. Now I see it is a marriage for your crown' her rise from the ground though to many would appear indignant, to him appeared wounded. _The girl has the right of it. Not the whole of it, but what her father saw in all this._

George felt a headache threaten to break out between his temples. 'You knew I would propose to you? Why did you not give any indication you possessed such knowledge? When you told me you knew the Earl and I were making some arrangements why did you feign confusion?'

'As I was still unsure whether my intuitions regarding you and he rising against King Edward were true. I knew I would not know the truth for certes , until after we were married and I wanted clarification so I would not enter this union blinded by a false delusion that you loved me' cried Isabel. In her distress she tripped over her train and tumbled to the ground in a manner irreconcilably atypical to her usual elegant nature. _It is lucid that she is in love with me. She looks a heartbroken damsel ready to relinquish a life she believes now lost. _Something turned in George's heart which he never knew was there. He had to act fast.

He quickly strode towards her and caught her in his arm before she threatened to trip again. Kissing her was just as he expected. He felt her nerves slowly melt into him and as she began to hold him tighter he deepened the embrace letting his more primal instincts take over. He felt her reciprocating eagerness keenly.

Once he pulled away he noticed how her chest was heaving with each breath but now in an altogether different manner than before and he grinned down at her. Her enlarged black pupils shook and seemed ever more turbulent now and a blush crept back on her cheeks, even deeper than the one earlier created by the wine.

'Do understand, my sweet, that for all your father's dynastic considerations that brought us into this marriage, they will not kill the love that shall take root. You will not only be my queen, but before that you will be my wife in the truest sense of that word' George said finally feeling a calm settle over him. At last, she looked content.

As they began turning back towards the great hall, he could hear the nocturnal sounds of the cuckoo and a calm washed over him as a feeling of hope began to take root inside him. There, enveloped by the safety of the stalwart stone-grey walls of Middleham castle, George felt at home again.


	4. Her father's throne: Lady Isabel Neville

**25th April 1469**

High up and far-removed from the soothing slosh of a now fully thawed thames and the bustle of the city street's mercers, sat the kingmaker's women. The mahogany panels of the solar were warmed by ribbons of newborn saffron light. It now piercing through the stained glass windows threw a rainbow at the gold-adorned hems of the ladies' gowns, setting them alight like embers. Queen Elizabeth sat above them all on a heavy dark chair propped upon the highest dias Isabel had ever seen. She was like a Heléne on her throne at Troy now gladly rinsed of her previous marriage to Sparta. The lovely curves of her rosy cheeks were raised in concentration as she led them all in the honourable practice of sewing shirts for the peasantry.

Isabel smirked at how much straighter her stitches were and how much nimbler her fingers worked through the countless linen shirts. Her mother from whom she had inherited her craft had, like her, finished ten, little Anne six and the Queen four. _Perchance, it is true what they say about lineage and the gifts that come with it. _

Besides her was sat the queen's sister Anne, now Viscountess Bourchier, soon to be Countess of Essex, but never to truly be Isabel's cousin-in-law. Not nearly as lovely as the Woodville Queen, but the way her long fingers would strum the strings of the psaltrey, was so light that the air seemed filled with each delicate twang.

The queen's other lady, the flaxen-haired Elizabeth Tilney sat at the fringes of the queen's entourage: far removed from Isabel's mother, sister and the grandiose 'proud Cis'. The room division's resembled battle lines and that did not elude Isabel. She let out a dry cough, which she attempted to stifle behind her emerald sleeve in vain.

'Milady Isabel' started the queen causing her to arch an eyebrow at the masked daggers that lay beneath Elizabeth's modulated voice. 'You seem weary child, The way you danced at the St George's day festivities! - oh - it is no surprise that your body may not have recovered'

Oh_ but how I danced_. Isabel could remember that night still: the jolly minstrels, the helmeted cockentric clad in the blue and murrey livery of the house of York astride the pig and George's invariably bright smile when portraying St George in the pageantries with a makeshift lead crown on his head.

Isabel felt a blush threaten to surface on her cheeks. Feeling the sudden wish to abscond to her chambers and immerse herself in her romances and think on George, graciously excused herself.

As she made for the end of the solar she caught sight of her mother's drawn faded face. Rumours of her father's clandestine affinity for Lancaster have seen a wane in his power at court. The future would scatter Isabel and Anne onto either side of this war depending on who they marry, but their mother's rise and fall ran with her husband's, for whom she now had only miscarriages to contribute. From the door Isabel once more dipped her head slightly as a special gesture meant only for her mother to which she responded with unmoving eyes.

Isabel's moods now also greyed such that she forgot all about George and the pagentries and she felt the disquiet for her family's fortunes grasp around her throat. Nevertheless, she counted herself fortunate to be free from the queen's presence. That woman's beguiling black eyes had done more damage to the House of Neville, then she could have ever herself known nor contemplated. That serpent. _For all her _foreigness_to courtly power, it is for _certes_ she who stands betwixt George and _I_. _

Isabel took to hating her as organically as a fish to water. Little Anne however remained in awe of her loveliness and would often try to emulate her gestures and walk, probably believing that on account of similar colouring, someone would mistake her for the Queen. _I was not as impressionable and naïve when I was her age, was I?_

She made for the open hallway leading her to the wing where her provisional bedchamber was situated. The short trimmed grass enclosed within square shapes was a far cry from the phantasmagoria of the windswept scenes at Middleham or even Warwick castle. The Earl had always allowed the vines to grow onto the battlements and towers like in an Arthurian legend, their terre verte arms asserting their dominance over the grey stone like a snake would its prey.

'Nostalgic, darling?' Asked a young voice

Isabel spun around so quickly that the emerald of her skirts and the crimson of the long silk of her henin whirled around her thin frame as if in protection.

'George! You half-frightened me!' gasped Isabel

'Are you indeed so surprised to find someone about court before vespers?' he replied sardonically

'No... no' said Isabel regaining her composition 'I was merely lost in thought'

'On what may I ask?'

'Thoughts too many to count on both hands' she said feeling a sense of unwarranted nervousness creep into her voice, 'mainly on when we are to marry. It has been many years past and I feel that if father cannot procure this, it only comes to show the King loves him no longer'

'Oh how impatient you are!' he chuckled

'At ten and eight, how could I not be? Have you any notion of how it feels to know of all those since girlhood married and with children of their own?' _All those far plainer and less landed than I._

George gave her a look which no matter how endearing it may have appeared to him struck her as condescending.

'Come here my haughty Isabel' he said playfully gesturing to the stone bench behind them 'Edward knows that I mean to have you and I will have it no other way. I have made my intentions clearer than a spring pond'

Though still appearing unappeased in the strain of her eyebrows, Isabel's felt her body naturally turn towards his while she obeyed and sat. 'It is that Rivers woman is it not? Casting her net over-'

George placed his hand, on the small of her back bringing her closer, which they both knew was the most ardent gesture he could offer without making his cousinly preference for her visible. Little good it did them as the other half of the court that did not whisper of the Earl's Lancastrian sympathies, rightly believed them secretly promised in a dangerous alliance. 'Come now, as much as I am wrought to ever defend her or her kin, I must say that your father's enmity over her has made you also overestimate her'

'Do you truly believe my judgment to be wrong?' demanded Isabel inquisitively 'I have seen her over the past months. The Duchess of Bedford must have imparted to her all her craft'.

'He has loathed her since that affair with Sir Hugh and how she spurned him thinking herself above in rank to his retainer. Who though a knight of Jerusalem, had not the courage to even ask for her hand himself. It was first father who had written to her and then yours.'

'I thought it was because the Queen's father, then a mere knight, dared to summon father to Rochester believing him guilty of piracy and then having the nerve in refusing to relinquish his command of Calais, until the troops had been paid their - in arrears - dues.'

'Oh but how much you do know!'

'Father tells me all of this.' smiled Isabel 'I am his heiress after all.' _The future Countess of Warwick... like mother I shall be. How god wanted me to be powerful that he had me placed into a line where titles to pass to women like they do to men._

'I see then. Would my lady care for a stroll around the herber garden?' Asked George offering his hand, no doubt wanting to draw her somewhere more remote where he can freely confide.

Isabel knew she was expected to be in her room but begrudgingly accepted the offer nonetheless... She clung onto his peach satined arm as if he were leading her into a banquet. Feeling the slipperiness of the sumptuous material with each readjustment of her fingers. She started fearing that her nails would leave cuts into the material.

They dallied about the quadrangles pretending to be attentive to the spicy mix of violet hyssop and gentle-hued sage. Both their minds were elsewhere. They claimed their seats but this time on a bench so much smaller than the last, that George found himself blanketed by the thick skirts of Isabel's Burgundian gown.

Isabel plucked a part of the Betony behind them. Its fuschia so bright it seemed to her that it did not belong in the same world as the fortress of Westminster with its sad colours and hoare-white walls whose winter spirit seemed to melt with each striking of the sun. 'There George, I have just the plant for your humours'.

'You believe me to have violent blood, you contemptuous girl?' he said amicably responding to her coyness.

'There never was a day I doubted it. Tempestuous, you were always' she said softly with a twinge of longing for their schooldays

'Then you ought to be my calming force. But now that I see how testy you be, I am beginning to question my belief!' he teased holding a sage up to her eyes and finding it comparatively lacking in colour.

Isabel's eyes peered at his back in amazement - at how they appeared to be constantly shifting in between honey and hazel. _I may have the sea's green in mine, but he has all its capriciousness. _Oh_how I mean to be married to him. Queen or mere Duchess, it matters not now. How noble he looks with his new black velvet cap - though a crown would suit better._ She thought back to the tableaux of him as St George at the banquet. The delay in marriage had given her ample opportunity to grow accustomed to her role in George's ambitions and for the past year she found she too yearned for their outcome. In being schooled in Latin and matters constitutional and equitable, she found a welcome addition to her otherwise stale instruction in religion and manors.

'Now sweetling, tell me of your father's plans. What was that business with Wenlock in Calais?' prodded George

'That I was not privy to' answered Isabel quietly 'But perhaps it is time you told me of what you and father mean to do with that Robin fellow. His name was circulating around Middleham before we left a fortnight ago.'

'A mere decoy, my love. It is John Conyers, a kinsman of yours by marriage' replied George 'Would you keep a secret?'

It just now dawned on her how easily George is like to surrender information just to prove himself the more informed. Isabel nodded quickly, 'Oh yes! Jesus wept, I thought I would go mad trying to wade through your and father's spider mesh 'till I could decipher your strategy!'

'Well, We have borrowed some money from the city to raise men and we will march north to Edgecote' whispered George jubilantly 'with troops raining down on him from Yorkshire and us from the south. Edward will be entrapped like a lamb in its pen. With that simpleton Robin of Holderness dealt with, Edward would immediately assume that our Robin of Redesdale be of Lancaster as well' George's already large eyes clearly brightened at the prospect of schooling the kingmaker's daughter in strategy. With a voice that bordered on too loud he continued, '-and deal with him himself thinking Captain Margaret begins this plot. Did you know he always secretly feared her'

Isabel nodded slowly in comprehension. 'If you have taken to drawing arms against your brother, then pray tell: how may we secure permission to wed?'

'Why we need only god for that, do we not? And that we have for the dispensation has been given by his Holiness' announced George smuggly to a hushing Isabel who was now nervously peering around for any sign of life that would betray this conversation to her newfound enemies. Reassurance and bliss showed on her face when he added, 'and we shall finally be married, in a couple months time but in Calais. And no one, not even Edward can move against it'

New dissensions brewed and strangely in a room which populated with the tight-lipped smiles of the barons' wives, and the handsomest King and Queen that England had ever seen, seemed dyspathetic to such.

After being privy to what she believed to be the full extent of her formidable father and George's plan, she felt an unfathomable anxiousness follow her with every step she took at court. She may have felt so uneasy, that even her raven hair felt heavy and tangling under the protection of the confining heart-shaped henin, but she was resolved to prove herself a true lady of good virtue.

_I am kingmaker's daughter and need to also mask my knowledge of treason, in every empty smile and curtesy, however dishonest that act _may be, she thought to herself, while approaching the dias. The naïve Felice was now once more at war with the heiress of four great houses.

In the same azure gown she wore before vespers, Elizabeth the Queen minced onto the dias in a manner whose imperiousity, Isabel conceded, was greatly aggravated by her own dislike. Therefore, she was half-surprised to see it was indeed the king, who with a booming proclamation declared court reopened.

'Ah- if only it had been you there beside the king. A more apt mediator to soothe our differences could never have existed' cautiously joked her father, one step behind her. _You mean to say I would have better filled the throne that you built. _

'Oh but father, surely you could not fault me for that, I was not yet ten and still with the nurses, when you - he was crowned' said Isabel

'The fault would be of none but mine. It did not occur to me until the last of your dear mother's miscarriages that I would have no son. Had I realised how god feared the coming into this world of a son born of people as we are, insatiable and limitless, who would soon make half of our native land but the manor of one man, I would have made certain that if the blood of our lines must pass into new houses, it would have been that of royal. Nine years past he would have denied me nothing.'

The Earl's tone was tender, causing a smile that revealed some of the lines and folds of one on the brink of advanced age. The way the rich red folds of his overgrown fell, however, revealed the body of a younger man still lean and strong. He amiably caressed the arm of his favourite daughter, the warmth of his hand cooled by the pale jewels resting on each finger. To all around them it would appear as if a plot were being hatched between the Neville clan, such smiles were commonplace for Isabel and foreign to all else. It was particularly that which made Isabel reciprocate.

'But father, what of George?' She queried with amusement still in her voice 'I could not be more pleased with such an arrangement, not even if it were with the King himself'.

She spared him a glance. He who towered above all men unrepentant, shared the same kingly beauty as George: a small rosebud mouth, retrousse nose and high forehead. However, where George's hair hung in châtain curls streaked with gold and some copper, Edward's hair was straight, dark and fashioned under a velvet cap like she so often saw sported by his emulative brother of Gloucester. Where George's eyes were large, round and revealed much, his were were her father's Neville brown cunning eyes, sharp, alert and intelligent.

Edward of York's large frame, voice and person did nothing to diminish the impossible elegance of his every movement and friendly countenance. In spite of Isabel's penchant for prettiness in men that naturally exalted George in her eyes, she could see that Edward was rightfully considered the handsomest and born to be king, and begrudgingly Isabel accepted that, on looks alone, Elizabeth seemed to as well.

'Yes, Clarence has all the superficial signifiers of his house: gallantry, bravery and chilvalry. I believe him to be a protector of the old ways and what is true and good. I also think him more inclined to listen to counsel than his brothers. But, dear daughter, you mistake me for your uncle of Montagu. It is he who is a soldier and I, a diplomat, have little interest in bloodshed and moreseo where it concerns one who I once thought of as a brother' her father added sadly 'Alas, you, Clarence and I are Nevilles and we do not shirk from our obligations to England'

'I mean to say, I do not dutifully come to the Clarence as a wife', she plead redressing her indescrete use of his Christian name. A habit that she should resign in the annals of her childhood, when becoming Queen 'It is no resignation for me. Truly father if you'd know how lonely I felt after sister Margaret left to marry that knight, with naught but mother and books to keep me company... But whenever at court, Clarence provides me with a companionship I am so joyous and gracious of, that I feel loved by him as I merit. He is comely, charming, witty and oh so very learned'. To her chagrin Isabel noticed herself nervously fiddling with the rings upon her pale dainty fingers. _When shall the day come where I no longer have to switch in between fingers George's emerald ring? I so yearn to proudly present it to all._

'A curse on that learning I say' muttered the Earl 'his love for poesies has yielded upon us a man full of scruples, fears and doubts. I daresay the only flaws he shares with his brother of Gloucester. But where Gloucester with the cold craft strange for one so young harnesses them into a shield, Clarence lets himself be swepped up in the chaos of his own wary premonitions and acts rashly.' The Earl's ominous speech was interrupted by the slight chuckle he had to himself, bringing his fingers up to his temple as if in a headache, he continued in a light incredulous tone that confused even Isabel in its interspersion of fatherly affection and judgment, 'My, had you been there to witness how he demanded for your hand in marriage - he strode into the privy council and made his request in a manner so defiant, it was as if the king had already refused him before!'

'The king's constant refusal has become the favoured jape of this court. I know, I know, but father surely you are glad to see that I am happy?' asked Isabel

'You are just as your mother Isabel. Where your pride and your propriety is satisfied, there you shall also find love. A union with Clarence will bring that and more, therefore I never doubted that you would be at bliss' he said to her, glancing at the now unoccupied thrones.

The spring light made the great hall glisten with promise of a chivalric age for the next decade. Isabel took off her emerald ring and held it up to the captive unicorn tapestry, whose angular form cut a scythe-like shadow onto the chequered ground. Isabel thought against comparing the circular form of the railing depicted to that of her own ring. Peering up at the lofty colourless arches of Westminster Palace, however, elicited a shudder from her. She found them imposing in their gothic beauty but unforgiving in their nature.


	5. Clarences in France: Warwick and Isabel

**7th July 1469 - Richard Neville the 16th Earl of Warwick**

It was in their dingiest castle at St Omer some leagues from Richard's own Calais residence that the Duke and Duchess of Burgundy chose to hold their repast. The southern summer gleamed duller and heavier here than at Middleham and even at high none, the angry sun would only but greet the earth feebly in orange tawny blazes. The heavy sea clouds that passed swiftly, cast the maroon room in either rich shade or splendid light whenever it seemed to catch their fancies. The interchangeability marked the intervals of time which, here in the presence of the Duke seemed to Richard to grow longer with every uneasy glance exchanged between them.

His recollection of Margaret from one year past were that of a girl curious, impatient and anxious all in equal measure. It was rather Anthony Woodville with whom she passed most of the days leading up to her marriage to the Duke. The kinship he felt with Cecily's girls always lacked in comparison with that towards her sons. For the better part of the journey he played the nursemaid watching as the queen's insufferable brother was humouring the impressionable girl with fanciful recitals of Burgundian poetry, _what this new generation dubbed humanist._

As much as she without a doubt enjoyed playing at cards with the Woodville boy and picking her trousseau with the witch, she is George's sister in more than blood and when the hour comes, she will not be spared from partisanship. _God knows I had to endure the ugly ordeal, though George appears to have never felt any qualms in this regard._

Margaret of York was presently with his daughters in the grand hall, no doubt dazzling them with her collection of hangings, among which was the latest unicorn tapestry. The needlework presented him as finally killed and brought to the castle, though Richard doubted it would be the last in this seemingly never ending series, so beloved by Anne and his two girls.

She herself appeared a unicorn when he finally caught sight of her. She bowed under the square doorway when entering as to make space for her headdress, a gesture that his two daughters repeated despite their far slighter heights.

Charles chuckled and added 'Our Carolingan ancestors doubtless never foresaw such fashions when they built those fortresses. I apologise to my wife for their shortsightedness on their behalf.

His accented English made it difficult for Richard to know if he was being sardonic or if his words were solely meant in jest. If the former, even he himself had to agree, the heights those deformed hats have begun to reach beggared all belief.

Taking her seat beside him she gaily retorted, 'Now now husband, we need only be glad to be cleansed of the barbarism of that bygone age. Warfare does not advance as much as it regresses', now turning to face all, she proudly added, 'That is what my brother Edward and I were always _ad idem_. He avenged father where necessary, but now am I glad to see our two countries peaceably leading the northern continents into a true prosperous age of beauty and art'.

Anne, wide-eyed, appeared bewitched by the Duchess' imaginings but Richard saw that Isabel shrunk in her chair, directing him an awkward stare undesiring in subtlety. _Thank the Lord she had the good sense not to talk._ He glanced at her bare white finger where George's ring was placed these few days past and was once more reassured that at least one of his blood had inherited more than just nobility.

'Your grace seems to have taken easily to your new land' said Isabel politely

'Why yes indeed! Flemish has proved a challenge, however, I am pleased to report that I have noticed a remarkable sharing of spirit between the English and the Burgundians. For this I find loving my husband's people an easy task'

'How so Duchess?' asked Anne with the customary curiosity of her voice

'For one, they are not tempestuous like the hot-blooded spaniards and the proud french. There is a determined industriousness in them. They are masters in art as they are in trade'. Richard noticed a twinkle break in the wide-set grey eyes of her father. From the hairline visible beneath the wimple and marengo headdress, he was reminded of her father's pale yellow hair too. Her height she shared with Edward, but now gregarious as he had never seen her, he saw George plain and clear. _A Plantagenet if there ever was one_ , he had to begrudgingly admit.

'Dear wife, surely you do not speak so kindly of the bourgeoisie?', Charles finally spoke. It was unclear whether he meant to ask her or tell her. 'It is they, that seek to undo all that I and father had fought for and devolve the power back unto their petty provinces'

'Ah the tis only the inevitable, I admire them but I never said I do not secretly ill-wish them. For you, wise as you are do too. Brother Edward was as much spurred by his desire to placate the English traders as he did to protect England from the French and allegedly now-' Margaret suddenly stopped and beneath the composure Richard could see her dig her thumbnail into her palm in self-chastisement. If only her face had matched her gesture. _To protect England from the Kingmaker you meant ._

'Forgive me my Lord of Warwick, I meant no-' _Yes you did. Your brothers did tell me how clever you were._

'...no offence was given by your grace' Richard said gingerly and a little too loudly. 'I pray only that the king find's his new mercenary alliances fruitful come warfare'.

Silence tumbled through the room, its gusts robbing the room of its rich hotness leaving it bony and stale. Isabel attempted to relieve the room of its tautness by pointing out the intricacy of the wood-panelling to Anne, the floral brocades on her primrose sleeve straightening with each movement. Richard simply repositioned his legs in silence before pinching another morsel of munster from the trencher.

'Something can indeed be said against a man who purchases a product at one price and sells it at another at greater cost but no greater value' Charles once again mercifully interjected 'It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God', he quoted with a flourish.

'If bare wealth be a sin than all our souls are damned' retorted Richard 'At least the old kind follows the commandments and treats their tenants fairly and cares for them as God would. Greed is as unnatural to descendants of Gaunt as selflessness is to the likes of the traders _and the Woodvilles though they fancy themselves gentry._

'If you say so my lord' huffed Margaret disaffected by the course her well-meaning remarks did take.

Sensing the room grow darker with the sun's ending journey Isabel asked 'your grace was exceedingly kind to have recieved us here. Despite passing much of my girlhood in Calais, a tinge of saudade never eludes me when England is out of sight. Do you never miss home?'

Isabel's roses and honey did much to sweeten Margaret in her dour humour. 'Home is felt with the company one keeps, not the place and insofar as I have been fortunate in this regard...' Margaret confided as she gazed at the Duke with gentle kindness '... I reminisce and when my lord husband was away quelling the revolts in Liége I felt my brother George's absence keenly. When we were children Edward, Edmund and Richard would band together and play at war in the hills of Fortheringhay, while George and I would visit the markets and put on plays for our mother with the trinkets we had bought. Mine and mother's darling but now I shall never know when I may see him again. Our agents in Rome do tell us a dispensation has been granted for him to wed though sadly not to our _Petite Marie_ '

Richard arched an eyebrow in retiscence at that. 'Then to whom Duchess?'

'Oh but wouldn't you know, my lord of Warwick?' flatly retorted Margaret.

**11th July 1469 - Isabel Neville Duchess of Clarence**

Damp air was rising from the sea, obscuring the lines of the Calais city streets to a mosaic-like delirium. The bride's verdigris silk clung to her like moss to castle-stone casting off her jasmine scent even more strongly, the blue of purity and green of young love mingling with each movement but constrained under a wide golden belt. The heavy train trailing behind the svelte figure made many an onlooker recollect the legends of Mélusine risen from the Lusignan waters, pure and phantasmagoric in equal measure.

'Oh Izzy, how beautiful you are!' cooed Anne as she matched her granular steps to her sister's long-strides. The Nevilles did not expect their prized flower to be lead to her wedding in a sorry procession made up of minor retainers and servants up a cobbled church street. They would have her carried in a gilded litter, surrounded by praises sung in English of queenly grace, not French silence and murmurs. Her father promised her grandeur but she felt like a village darling off to marry a apple-cheeked lad with two cows as her dowry more than anything else. 'George will be besotted with you'

'Of course he will Anne. He already is' she wryly boasted as the modest journeyers came into the presence of L'Église Notre-Dame. A need for prayer precipitated over her, but she knew not for what. _For father or for George perhaps? For them to not return defeated and spiteful at each other? Or for myself, and for George, for his destiny not to fail us? For this wedding night and pleasures not got with pain?_

Yesterday, her mother's natural prejudice led her to believe that Margaret bastardly-born, as she was, had already exposed her virtuous daughter to the salacious facts of what passed between man and wife. Availed of the unpleasant duty, she instead set on instructing her on childbearing matters, about which, (because, as life's poetic ironic would have it) she was exceedingly knowledgeable in. Little did she know that Margaret was innocent entirely and the real transgressor was none but George. Isabel felt a shameful blush creeping over her cheeks for allowing such thoughts to permeate her attempt of prayer, but before she could communicate her penitence to god, she caught side of the two Georges, _Plotting as ever._

'Why Isabel, to think to find you already in prayer', George gested at her clasped hands.

'Why with only god to sanctify our marriage, how else?' She smiled, drawing closer to the great door. 'Why, how _drôle_ that our wedding bans be posted in French', her fingers traced the haggard letters of the parchment. 'Have they been changed thrice?'

'What difference would it make, niece?' asked her bearded uncle the Archbishop of York 'Here in Calais, your father's just as a king, and as for those dissenting in England, well why trouble oneself?'

George nodded, 'Why indeed?'. He offered Isabel his hand as a King would assist a queen in ascending the perilous stairs of a throne and the fabrics of their dress, so alike, mingled in one pluvious river. She now stood at his left as the rib that made Eve placed in Adam.

Five knights of the garter, among them John Tiptoft Earl of Worcester, assembled. French and English nobility united and her uncle George rattled off the customary inquiries - Were they of age? Did their parents consent? Is this union consanguineous? The latter to which her father had to respond by presenting the papal dispensation.

George presented her with a gold purse, pressing its weight confidently in her palm before the sermon was performed. Isabel deflected her gaze to the pleasant greenery of the tufts of grass. For such an old proud church, there were mounds of soil where burrowing rabbits tread, the brightest coloured pigments she had ever seen flashed beneath her eyes as the spiced breeze from the herber whisked the butterflies up in perfect frenzy. Every part of the tableaux that moved, even the clouds, appeared to conjure a whistful tune that more than made up for the absence of song. Many, her mother among them, would declare such a moment of beauty as a revelation of god in nature. But this day it seemed that the beauty of such providence took root in her heart before her perception admitted it in the surrounding nature, for she knew that such joy would never again be felt nor seen. _Mayhaps George was right and god elevates such a marriage as this that would seek to establish his natural order. No love in any romance may rival this._

When it turned to her to make the vow, she freely expressed much of what she had just thought and to both her relief and anxious expectation, she saw George gold-tinged and affected.

Following a quick sermon and the perfunctionary exchanging of rings, Isabel knelt distributing the coins to the poor folk who accepted them graciously with whispery french prayers said behind wind-blown linen whimples. A particularly brave girl presented her a dozen poppies plucked off the opal coasts. With that they forsook the romantic for the angular confinement of the chapel.

The mass that ensued presented the giddy Isabel with another opportunity to beseech god to guide her through all the concerns, which earlier clouded her thoughts. Having all come apart like the seams of an unkept book, she chose to give thanks instead. The canopy George and her were under, obscured what little coloured strained light there was such that they could recognise none but one other as if in a catacomb. They were now Duke and Duchess of Clarence.

Far more eagerly than when receiving the kiss of peace from her uncle, George it his upon his bride. Cheers could be heard from all around her, they bent off curved walls in echoes so fierce that they resonated as strongly as if the guests numbered in the hundreds. Anne's unusually trebled voice could be singled out and before the party hastened back to her father's castle, Isabel slid off her ruby studded gold bangle from her wrist and showed it to her sister.

She held it in her small hands, confusion showing in her large brown eyes. 'I would that you have it Annie. I know we have not been the closest of sisters at late, do forgive me'.

'There is nothing to forgive Issy, you and father were occupied, I have learned to know my place' replied a voice tinged a little too sadly for Isabel's comfort.

'Your place will be with me for the coming weeks' Isabel smiled gently offering a hand. The girls' arms were now linked and they were once again the bestest of friends, 'So you see, I am not stolen from you just yet!' joked Isabel. She saw questions taking root as Anne's thin lips began to tremble and laughed 'Oh yes' I heard what you uttered to Richard when George came to Middleham that year. Oh Annie, your have a voice like father, no matter how quiet, it is always heard'

At their castle, news reached her father th at his dear friend King Louis and his brother _Le Duc de Berry_, were detained at court and would offer them their well-wishes tommorow. _This was clearly to be what father planned would bring the requisite grandeur to this royal celebration_. She fingered the strands of the braided gold belt and held up an opal rose pendant set in tiny sapphires, delighting in it like a satisfied magpie. _I see George and Father shall revel with kings, hunt, make merry to their heart's content to carry them through the fortnights of inescapable blood stench and I shall play at being Queen once the spider king arrives._

Nonetheless, lilies and white roses in their hundreds were strewn across the floor obscuring the rushes below, their fragrances filling the air as they were trod on by guests.

Fifty Anjou pigeons, 4 boar heads and five hundred manchet loaves were arranged on the longtable with a large cockentrice as the centrepiece. Astride it, a helmeted dwarf-like rooster bore the bear and the ragged staff spliced with the sunne in splendour.

When sliced into by her father, the whiff of saffron, powdered ginger and garlic mingled with that of the rushes in such an assault of the senses that Isabel brushed her veil over her shoulder as if to guard it from the smell. The white silk was so fine that while not concealing, it obfuscated the raven strands making her hair take on the form of a thin dark tower shrouded in fog.

By the time the minstrels had arrived, the night had itself become a murky pot of emotions, senses and wine. Isabel herself revelled in the Carola, where she joined hands with her father and husband and led the merry-makers in song jubilantly fancying herself Enide, and George the knightly Eric in the tale of sir Percival. More Enide the queen crowned at Nantes than Enide the pauper, of course.

_Love within marriage, tests not conjured by it but borne through its strength, woman's forbidden word offering salvation not peril. This shall be my life's verse._

The night was advancing and Isabel shot a pleading glance towards her father, but to no avail. Her mother, in spite of her own experiences stared down at her goblet averting her eyes from the suppliant. It became clear to Isabel that the bedding ceremony was to happen.

A string of the minstrel's lute was plucked, its twinge heralding a change in tune and bawdier lyrics. The wine loosened its grip over her senses and Isabel determined to retain her composure throughout. Her veil was clawed off by a ruddy laughing girl and her companions, freeing her hair from its confines, which to her dismay had developed kinks and irregular curls throughout the day. George was far more pliable and when his cape was snagged off his back he feigned falling back, which elicited a roses of laughter. By the time the party made it to the stairs, none placed as much interest in George's blue garter as much as in claiming her matching one. After enough displays of modesty she surrendered it to a young gentleman who appeared to be the beau of the girl who snatched her veil. After much hullabaloo, tousled hairs and slipping clothes they were placed in bed. It was a mercy that after the sanctification of the marriage bed, all departed.

George's cheeks were flushed and when he kissed her she found that wine dwelled in him still and let out a shiver. 'Now Isabel, as good Christian people we may not have enacted tonight but I do know you do not come here a tight-lipped cold-blooded maiden', to her relief there was focus in his large eyes and exactitude in his enunciation. 'I do know you are eager, you have shown me as much'

'Now husband' she said in an imitating tone 'I am not seasoned as you in this deed, I do not feign shyness as I do hide my anxiousness'. _Not that I know of any women, not that he would tell me.__But with a brother like Edward one could only infer._

He did not confirm nor refute and after she pulled her chemise over her head, he remarked the tightness of her waist and smoothness of her skin, for complements were never accepted as gladly by any as she. Feeling her curious and eager nature take over she wrapped her hand around his member and easily aroused as customary of a maiden and a young boy, it took not time before she willingly found herself ready and beneath him. Romantic notions, stolen kisses or caresses of times passed, however, did not prepare her for the unusual pain that followed. She whimpered holding her tears within for as long as she could. An odd assortment of thoughts on the prospective pains of childbirth clashed with what were forming to be unprecedented pleasant sensations. To her relief, she soon abandoned all notions of thought and pushing back against him, he willingly lay back enjoying her as she straddled him.

After they were both spent, Isabel headed her mother's advice and slid a cushion under her hips. She then took to incessantly dabbing wet linen on the stains of the sheet, it was a futile task for hands that have never known greater strained than turning the pages of an illuminated manuscript.

George's hands stopped hers, 'Your prudishness will not bode well with queenship I dare say' laughing at her dismayed face, 'Edward's wife gives birth surrounded by an audience of women'

'Then it is a blessing that our son shall be born at one of my father's castles in dignified privacy' she said relieved and letting go of the cloth, letting him hold her in an embrace and indulge her in kisses. As the hours passed she let him pour her a goblet of the malmsey wine left for them and they joked and told stories of future kings with the naïve certainty that could only afflict thus, young newly-weds on their wedding night.


	6. A Cousins' War: Countess Warwick

**15th August 1469**

The Ladies of Warwick would grow tired in the coming days. Anticipation layed claim to their blood like a merciless tyrant, confounding all senses and transfiguring the muted colours of the garden into short sharp bursts of violets and reds unfolding their eyes, as their imaginations were left to run wild.

No woman was more well-versed in the practice of biding one's time in dignity than the Countess herself. Her hands would be bound to the busy business of adorning her daughters' sleeves. The mind would set itself upon matters of _feoffee to uses _. As a young girl, the needs of the heart would be met through the valiant deeds immortalised in The Grail Stories, her tired index finger tracing each engraved line for semblances of her husband's character in De Boron's poesies. Fodder for girlish fancies that now lay in the shallow grave of her youth, made colder with each miscarriage wrought on her person.

Her daughters trailed behind her as they left the resplendent terraces for the vaulted chambers, just as the sext sun began to claim its highest throne. The silks from their gowns flashed behind them like straggling snakes made subserviant footmen, occasionally overlapping in clashes of colour. Fresh bristol silk as red as the maiden's hair, somber foliage patterned on crane-coloured satin for the mother and Indigo brocade dripping in richness and detail for the Duchess who would not deign it any other way.

Isabel's boudoir at Warwick possessed an inverted ceiling, which made it a favourite backdrop for her daughters when they played at castles. It was their third place of repose for the day already, and one that would well shield their complexions from browning.

Anne was sat close to the oriel window, busily attending to the wrinkles of her labour - a baby's smock. The green and murrey stitches, straighter than any stitches that had ever preceded them, glistened in the summer sun like cool jewels against the fire of her hair. She smiled gleefully.

Isabel, congruous to her usual character, made her pace slow and when finally appearing before them, had her hand placed visibly over her flat stomach as if two days shy of confinement. Her long dark hair shifted freely under the bare confinement of a frontlet emanating the carriage of the Virgin herself.

Anne eager to please held out to Isabel the flimsy cloth 'Issy, tell me you like it, there you may have not noticed I added a little bear cub, can you make its likeness?'

Isabel propped her feet upon their father's stool with a flourish before accepting the offering with delayed movement. She held it against the sun, nails critically grazing the handiwork for fault.

A daughter dark and pale with fashionable sadness in sage eyes, another with skin of honey and milk and hair like copper, full of vitality and goodness, as she. Had I not known them better I would have thought Isabel fit for mother's old title of Gloucester and Anne, a bride for Clarence. They once seemed like the sun and moon. Annet felt a certain fondness for her new son-in-law, as much she would begrudgingly admit if held to question, but now that Isabel was free to take to him as a lawful wife, she started seeing vestiges of his hopefulness and flamboyance take root in her.

'Daughter dear, how sure are you of your being with child?' asked Annet 'Only a week passes since your monthly course was due'

Isabel retrieved the smock to Anne, a brief inclination of her head conveying enough gratitude to inspire reassurance in Anne, just. The frock did little such for the Countess. 'As to your knowledge, father and George tarried in Calais near a week after we were wed. I can assure that the nights we had as man and wife were spent most fruitfully. If a child had not been begotten already, it would defy the workings of god and nature'

Annet shot a look at Anne, who was desperately trying to trap the giggles in her throat, but with little success. 'Isabel, you need not blaspheme and above that, being a woman wed does not entitle you to such vulgarity'.

Isabel stared back at her and redness took root over blanched features. She was once again her teenaged daughter, who would not have dreamed of retorting back to her mother.

'What have you taken to amuse yourself with today?' asked Annet willing a motherly warmth remedy her tongue.

Isabel produced some papers, the wax of the scarlett seal bearing two crows and a lion was unbroken.

'Are you truly planning on reading George's letters to us for the third time?' Jested Anne. Annet smirked in hidden gratefulness for the opportune timings of Anne's defiances when they rarely did arise.

'This is new news. Fresh news. A messenger brought it some hours past. If you both determine to be this way then I see no reason to share its contents' she said with newfound boldness.

'Go on then Isabel' prodded Annet patiently

' _Dear Heart, _

_I write to you a jubilant husband eagerly bequeathing unto you the bestest of news. Your father and I have captured Edward and are but a day's ride from Warwick. Edgecote Moor is proof enough that God smiles upon our work and your uncle at Olney has now given us my brother. I think it would amuse you much to see our Edward fallen into the guise of our prisoner, his hands bound and unable to wright any more mischief upon this kingdom. I have mentioned to your father that the Oubliette would do perfectly, but he thinks me jesting and will not entertain the suggestion._

_I once again say that my only regret is that you were not there beside me to witness for yourself the cries of 'A Warwick! A Clarence' as we rode through Kent and even London, though they say the South loves Edward. As you know Sir John Conyers was slain in the melée, which may be the only regret I carry with me, having found the northerner rebel's loyalities most touching. Withall, it is now more certain than ever that you will be Queen. Engage in your revelries as you ought to as you shall be the finest and most beloved'_

Isabel pressed the letter to her chest and drew a deep breath smiling blissfully . The theatrics of the gesture ran deep and true, even Annet admitted to herself, seeing an unusual raise in her daughter's hooded eyes. They were now the Despencer green. Annet noticed from a wandering shimmer that escaped the window, how sprightly a new wife's eyes could be.

The reminding realisation of her daughter's youth once more hit her with a blunt fervour. She thought that perhaps, innocence indeed trumped experience in virtue, for the latter's lesser value never stilted the joy of the former. She remembered all too well the pangs of emotion she felt when reading her husband's triumphant war letters in what felt like another era, however, it was never like this.

She only saw the children who a season past were sneaking bonbons from the pantry now playing at war and crowns. _Unjaded and unfortified hearts are liberal in their joys which, however much they rival the shallowness of a horse trough, also have it in them to overcome the Pennines with hope alone. _

'Ah Anne, when I am Queen you shall be joined in the second to the best match in Christendom' Annet heard Isabel say and knew better than to ask who Isabel in fact considered the foremost eligible suitor.

'Oh truly Issy?' Asked the hopeful child

'Yes. Gloucester's cowardice will be forgotten like a dandelion would readily its pappus' Isabel passed to Anne her unguent so that she may too pride herself with soft hands, within lay crushed amethysts among a cornucopia of older herbs. 'A French prince perhaps, now I never much liked them, however, father says it is an important country to appease. Calais claims more of your childhood than it did mine. One only need hear your French. It even surpasses mine, I daresay unsurprisingly so'

Annet raised an eyebrow at that, in surprise as much as in amusement. She did not think she would hear Isabel admit that Anne could best her in anything, while still here on earth.

'Thank you dear sister, I am readily committed to forget Richard. Tell me, how can one brother so valiantly cross the channel in defiance of the king for love, whereas the other would not even dare ask him twice?' _Edward, the cold calculating king, denier of love, prohibitor of the happy marriage. My, what a fanciful image these two weave._

'I would tell you if I knew Annie' chuckled Isabel shaking her dark head in disbelief 'Richard clearly would rather his brother than a wife he loves. If I were you I'd say "good riddance"'

Hands tightened around the stout wooden arms of the Countess' chair while an errant foot involuntary kicked at the rushes freeing a herbal scent. 'Truly, had cat's brain been slipped into your porridges this morning?' She noticed both her daughters suddenly veering their faces away from each other and towards her, startled by her exclamation.

'Gloucester was not yet a man when Clarence first defied the king, what would you have a twelve year old do, Isabel? I know that to attempt to veto your musings would be in vain, but you are no Queen yet and as such must not alienate anyone of the house of York, not in thought nor in deed'

Isabel nodded quietly, Annet saw in her face the crestfallen expression George wore the five years past. Wide eyes sparked with dismay rather than dulled by contrition or diminished pride. 'Yes, we have all seen the French price of loyalty. Jesus wept, you think any of this I did not know before? As you said, let me muse in peace'

Just as in St Omer, a curtain of silence swept over the room only to be availed by the Sunday tintinnabulations of the bells in St Mary's Church. The peal of Anne's voice added to the chorus, 'But this letter dates three days past. Why are they not here?'

_It would be like George to sacrifice clarity for flare._ 'Best read the rest', prodded Annet

'Very well then', Isabel conceded

' _Beloved one, I bid you goodnight presently at Kenilworth where I tarry for a day in the dispensation of justice. Two snakes heads are to be taken off by matins tommorow, they are those of the witch's father and brother John - married to your aunt Katherine. I believe that is explanation enough for why though I am near, you must wait a day or two to rejoice in my return -_' the letter slipped unceremoniously through stunned fingers.

Annet was at once at her side 'Isabel! Isabel!', she shook her by the shoulders freeing her raven hair from its frontlet and into the pallour of her face.

'I did not want this mother' she whispered faintly behind a shaking fist 'What would god think, what would-. Oh jesus, have mercy on us'

'God smiles upon them' Annet found herself quoting George 'he is the almighty and the Queen's kin would not have been put in their path if he willed it any different'. Hands were now placed about her daughter's collar as if she were a horse caught in a storm needing to be steadied.

'You would say the same for my grandfather of Salisbury. That god willed him lynched and cut down, rotting in the squalor of Wakefield?' She would have drawn her hand indignantly to her chest had her mother not enclapsed her wrists into a steely grip.

Soothing her daughter, she realised, had all the wisdom of a cripple instructing a mute on how to walk. Annet briefly looked away. She, the cripple here, was unsettled rather than horrified. _Yes, feeling naught for a man and his young son being strung up like poultry is unsettling._

_Have I no heart, have I relived this moment too many times, just to find that everything that is to be felt, I felt, yet none the wiser for that? _

'I would not. That you do know perfectly well. Now, your father has done great good. His place in God's kingdom is assured. Clarence is young, he has many more years to uncover the long, winding road. As for you, you have no part in this. Your soul is not tarnished, worry not for yourself- selfish practice it would be if you did'

Pale green eyes stared back into hers streaked with bronze. Anne was ever more a joy to her than Isabel, the bond was obvious. But in moments like this, her attentions covered aught but Isabel in their griefs and worries. 'If you'd only know mother! It was George's path that placed exclusively into my consideration. Father as well, but certainly not myself and my soul. I think of my wretched powerlessness. On how often I will find myself able to do nothing to ensure that George may walk the golden path with father when the time comes - that even before that he will be cursed here on Earth like a Henry Fitz-Empress'

The Countess stood up, the crane-coloured thistles in her skirts gathered around her like a ghostly garden against the windowed backdrop of a coming storm. 'Oh but there is much to do. Be his wife and love him, be England's Queen and keep its peace, bear the King a son and secure his succession. Do this and there will be no more deaths. I vow this to be true'.

'Lo- mother, sister, the King!' shouted Anne across the room. The warm wind from the Campion hills was in conflict with the sudden onpour, noisily banishing the raindrops to the windows in opaque watery blankets. Annet did not need to be with her husband and attendants below to know that the gravel was still hot. She could make Clarence's likeness: the rider of the black destrier whose curls streaked golden by the sun stood on one end. Her husband's return she saw not with the eyes but felt instinctively. Her eyes would not have demasqued the downcast man for the king had he not so towered above all the others.

'Isabel, tidy yourself your ki -' _no, brother by marriage. For heavens sake, what to call him?_ ' Edward is here' she finally settled on.

Isabel was looking too, the Byzantine garnet pendant she was gifted by George as a wedding night gift, claimed what little light came from outside in its opulence. Her face showed no sign of duress and no sign of tears. Annet sighed with contentment and now relief for Isabel's imperturbable exterior, how she would have hated a crying daughter. One to remind her every waking hour that she was no son.

A white bolt of silk was fashioned onto Isabel's head into a chaperon and they made their way down to the great chamber for their last excursion about the castle. The three men passed the threshold and when the women curtseyed, the befudled Countess thanked chance they came at once as none of them knew for whom the deference should be intended.

Isabel was the first to rise, greeting George as a wife. _A wife's devotal duty. Surely none could gainsay her for bypassing the King ._

Any neutrality was however broken when George in spite of- or rather because of- his brother's presence drew Isabel towards him pressing his lips lingeringly against hers.

The King did not need to do more than narrow his dark eyes, and fear was struck into the walls themselves. The stalwart grey stone which saw all their childhoods and marriages unfolded, all but this giant of a man, who in them saw nothing but the betrayal that had passed against kings. No two kings were as different as Edward IV and Richard II whose Sir Gaveston was sentenced to die in this very castle. _Yet fate is wrought with irony. _

'Cousin, welcome to Warwick Castle' said The Countess who was in no mood for a confrontation regarding honorifics . 'I have made ready your lodgings at Caesar Tower. As soon as it started to rain I bid the servants prepare a bath, if you please'

The morose nod he then gave was greater confirmation of his capture than any tied rope could have given.

As he was escorted away, she fell into her husband's arms in a strange variation of their reunion customs. 'Is it done?'

'I know my clever Annet better than to ask which you did mean- the deposition or the executions' The Earl joked, cracked lips forming a warm smile 'Yes, the deed is done'.

Drops fell into his collar as he shook his head at George, clucking, who instead chose his plain tattered boots as his focus 'For the love of Christ George, I know you did add that to your letter to Isabel. I told you: platitudes and naught else should be there. Have you spared any though on-'

George met his eyes and answered with, 'Thought on what? That news would get out and Edward would find out?' The smirk that gathered, sat as naturally on his soft lips as a dagger in a babe's hand.

Warwick slapped his back in congratulatory laughter, 'Right you are my boy, but best be be cautious. Always.'

Some days later, they all found themselves at a supper none wished to attend.

Edward sat his goblet down as quickly as he had raised it for the page to pour his wine. The malmsey wine sat in a sickening sweet and heavy lump in his throat. Instead of washing the heavy cuts of poultry with wine he seemed to favour an opposite approach. Even she had to admit how that particular Grecian wine did not take to everyone's pallet and certainly not hers, but it was the best and for that also The Woodville Queen's favourite. _Haughty, fleeting and ambitious, perhaps under other circumstances, Clarence and the Queen would have been kindred spirits. But in times of war such personalities clash._

Her husband had long finished eating and soundlessly disappeared only to return with a clangour against the flagstones as if he were bringing an armed retinue to supper. The paper he pushed to Edward was every bit more noxious.

'What is this cousin?' asked Edward feigning confusion

'Your abdication documents, Edward. Your indolent attitude towards our provisos was unkingly. I am doing both you and England a service, sign this and cease to be king. I have only to speak in The Lords and have you struck down by force' The impatient earl pushed them further towards him 'Spare yourself some dignity. Sign this'

'Ha- of course, one more of your expertly crafted documents, monsieur diplomat. Tell me, will I find here any of George's artistic flourishes as the previous?' He shot a look at George who matched him venom for venom 'I see our history tutor has had an impact on you. Richard II, Edward II... George tell me, do you fancy yourself Henry Bolingbroke?

George's nostrils flared as his shoulders hunched. Annet could see he was looking at Isabel expectantly only to find she resorted to fiddling with the green veil of one of her more modest henins, _I pray she will find her mediation duties at court to bemore civil _. Mercifully Anne was not present (despite her protests) to add draught to the flames.

'We only wanted-' started Warwick

Edward toyed with the bill 'Yes yes. An end to corrupt governance, reversal of inordinate changes, such and such. This stinks with the same rancour as it did hundred years past with the kings George so artfully imputed in the manifesto. Truly cousin- has your creativity dried out? Using the same turn of phrases on me as you did with poor crazed Henry of Lancaster? I see no reasonable provisions within its content but a call to the past when all powers were vested in you. I laugh.'

His smirking eyes suddenly took to anger, a shade nearly covered behind dark eyes turned black by candlelight, as he eyed the document of abdication. Something struck him and it showed clearly in the clear low tone he began to adopt. 'Does my lady mother know about this? None have loved you like mother, George. Yet you would make her an adulteress. Tell me, will you set a cuckhold's horns atop our father's head after you be crowned? And you speak of dishonest advisors. The peddlers of Cheepsake have more honour than that'

God's angels must have stood in shock as for once, George gave no retort. He did not rise to his brother's wit nor hurl insults at him, though many had probably occurred to him. The two only shared look isolating aught. _The true cousins' war, now a brothers',_ though Annet with horror.


	7. The City of the Lady: Lady Clarence

**22nd November 1469**

In the sanctum that was her dreams, Isabel gladly shed the chains enslaving her to the temporal. For the past months she willed merry thoughts visit her in those sweet hours. Now that mind finally prevailed over matter, she wove herself among rosy images of frolicking unicorns and walks in perfumed gardens. There, white roses surrounded, their scent ever more sweet in spite of their diamond petals. Hand-in-hand with her, George shone even brighter and they never tired no matter how far they walked. The never-changing image, freely eager rushed to her, like she imagined peasant children would towards their mothers.

A brisk wind bellowed through the damp corners of London's narrow streets, its whistle pressing onto even the city's most officious dwellers to not venture further than the thresholds of their homes, as the first sleep was coming to an end. Isabel gently rose and tucked the errant dark strands that had escaped the confines of the silk she took to wrapping around the length of her hair, to preserve its softness. The next time she awoke, would be in the dreaded anticipation of returning to the Woodville court where after so many months she would have to once again see for herself her father and husband cornered by the Edward's household men and their sidelong glances.

As typical, no creases were to be found on the pearly linen. George used to joke that should anyone ever think to intrude into her chambers during those hours they would think that she was in fact lying in state, face placid and pale, fingers crossed over an unmoving belly. Now visibly with child, her mother thought it improper for them to be seen sharing a bed, her prudery extending this veto to even Anne who selflessly offered herself for sisterly companionship. Now alone and enveloped in the heaviness of stale silence, came the irresistible draw to stay awake yet unmoved, to seize the calmness.

She peered at the wooden leg, supporting her canopy, to find that the little tyke had also decided to shed itself free from its earthly collar and rope. Isabel feared the greyhound had already entered into the advanced stages of its rampage of L'Erber; laying siege on her mother's settles. She drew her fox furs over her shoulders before making for the stairwell, grumbling to herself ' What possessed me to accept this pup, when I know dogs never listen to me? Should have left all four of the whelps to Anne, Father and George'

The main hall of L'Erber was adrift with slumber, it bode well with the sombre carvings in the English Oak of the chairs and longtables. The row of oriel windows were like large eyes into the gardens, the grass sleek after the succession of rainy days bowed them to nature's will turned oppressive. After throwing some quick glances, she continued to her father's cabinet as the moonlight sprang in intensity colouring the cream threshold arch, into a patchwork of shades of jewelled blues, reds and greens, mirrors to the glass' reflections.

In the chasm of night, she could make out the sound of light steps drawing closer. She met them with the free long-strides afforded to her by her nightgown and found George clutching at her dog. To her, he looked as strange in his white shirt and plain breeches, as the kitchenboy would donned in his plumed caps.

Whispering yet startled, he beckoned her into the cabinet. 'The poor thing was parched, my sweet, I found it trying for Anne's room, I gave it some water and would return it you'

Isabel cocked her head and smiled 'of course it did, my sister seems to retain some magic over these creatures'

The bolt slid behind them with a thump 'maybe she remembers to feed them or perhaps your dousing of flowery scents does not agree with them' he teased reverting to his normal pitch

'I do not _douse_ myself' she protested before feeling a heat penetrate through the flimsy satin of her sleeves and the scent of wax fill the air from the half-a-dozen candles burning about a wooden table. She knew instantly to ask 'what you seem grave, my love, what troubles you so?'

He looked to the papers as the silver glow from outside mingled with the golden candlelight; sharpening the lines of his cheekbones and nose, it mingled with the hazel in his eyes setting their golden aglow like the pages in an illumination. Her breath caught in her throat, sudden awe washing over her in pangs. In the past, they seldom came accompanied by feelings of inadequacy, but tonight they did. 'Nothing truly important Isabel. I paid a simple revisit to the terms of the amnesty, granted to us yesterday'

Thin dark eyebrows knitted in slight confusion 'Aren't such documents about four pages? I see at least one hundred there'

She took deliberate steps towards the mound, but he got there first. The pile nearest to her was filled with sums and numbers jumbled around within its mahogany leather covers. Lone deeds were interspersed around, surrounded, like rushes on the flagstones, they dropped to the floor with each frantic movement of George's hands.

She knelt to pick up a ceaded scrap, across it, lines were scrawled in fours, the penmanship raw and inelegant. Before she could make out the words, George reached in and in one fell movement plonked it in his pitcher. The ink turned the contents blue as its truth unravelled in the water.

Isabel froze 'what-', he regarded her, a defeated intensity came in response with a blank stare 'Your father, I shall put simply, scorns my efforts. He gambled for Edward like he would not, now for me. It strikes me, how fool I was to shut my ears when he was accused of favouring the party of Margaret of Anjou', he then entered into a slurred babble as he slowly sat down as if in the grips of a headache 'Monipenny, him and the spider, Calais, the charges-'

'Husband of mine, would you let your doubt divide?' she plead feeling herself kneel beside his chair, the oaken floors hard and numbingly painful under cold knees. 'Does our dream no longer beseech you? The perfumed garden of England, the Camelot, through which we shall all walk, forever'

'That may be so, truly I trust your dear heart. But here in your father's dreams the white roses have wilted to red, ever since the disillusionment that was my brother. This accursed amnesty, I did not want it, your father alone did, and for what? Do not even have me begin on your uncle of Northumberland'

'My father, my uncle.. Husband they are your cousins too, not my kin alone' she felt her voice reduce to a harsh whisper 'Men to fight Humphrey of Brancepath could not be mustered until Edward were released. If father had not ridden north with Edward the Lancastrians would have breached the northern defenses, scoured our territories seizing off them any value. Neville lands to which I feel you too often forget are your livelihood also, as your mother's son'

He felt her eyes bore into his from below, glowering in shivering green glints 'Rise up, I will never have you kneeling, my sweet, not even to me' he cajoled, while caressing the softness of her cheeks. When reaching the curve of her downturned eyes she could feel his fingers pull firmly, pinching even. 'Do not think I have forgotten. Your father makes good work of reminding me every day of the Neville exceptionalism, a debt borne from my blood on your wealth. In the past, where a King alienated his barons, a violent fall was never too far behind. All the same, whenever a baron rose too high...' He started acidly, stood drawing her up to him. Certain sentences did not need to be ended.

She shook clinging to him, twisting in a strange guilt as she sought the warmth spreading from his hands. To her surprise, his winded tightly around her in instinctive protection. Disjointed moments like this were becoming more commonplace, shrouded in these fogs of light-headededness Isabel could never quite make out who George meant to make his enemies, their enemies. As a girl she was taught to hate Lancaster. It was easy, they were the murderers of her grandfather and uncle. As a woman it was Edward's York. They who took those sacrifices for linen scraps in surplus, past use, unworthy of embedment in the regalia of these robes made for Edward's new age. Learning to hate Neville was as impossible as learning to hate George. _When the day comes that those two shall split, so shall I, in two equally bloodied parts._

'He loves you George, differently than he did Edward. But, he is past gambling' is what finally came out in muffled notes between palpitations 'I speak not for uncle, but father, like the lord, he works in mysterious ways. He is patient and biding his time'

'Biding his time Isabel?' he retorted incredulously 'By setting us backwards?'

'No no, now with the Grand Council's amnesty granted, you will be able to muster troops soon, you see. What is necessitated is time' she drew away to his unconvinced eyes narrowing 'I tell you how insulted he was, gravely so, when parliament denied you' _as if you were the son he never had and had forgotten he still wanted. A hope that lay dormant first when I showed no interest in military tactics and again when for a good year, Anne would cry every time venison was served. You came and it revived in you, his Neville heir, the recievor of the smile that which had once been for my eyes only. _It became her to verbally lay onto George all the praises that he inspired in her, but this, she would not realise by saying, and would continually for as long as circumstances were not so dire to force them from her mouth.

She beckoned him to the window seat, somewhere to level them, her dog pacing behind them mirroring the sound of their steps with its light staccato ones like an echo in the void. 'Edward is not a king for England, he will show himself thus and everytime it will lodge itself into the minds of the men in the commons, bearing into their conscience. That must be father's plan' she decided

'A passive attack, one with too many variables, truly wife-' began George

'Your reign will not be as Edward's, why must it surprise you that your path is not modelled in the likeness of the one he took? You face a harder foe than he ever did, in time the commons will think on Clarence for daft Henry of Lancaster be no substitute. Look to two months past, then only uncle John could enter London now...'

'Now we are "his bestest friends"' chuckled George to Isabel's relief, resting a hand on her womb, suspicion was smothered bloodlessly in its infancy. 'Until our son comes into this world, right you are, clever wife of mine, as your father thinks, we will bide our time' he took on a sterner tone, proclaiming 'smiling and revelling while the populace shall stir clandestinely in our shadows. As we shall prosper, Edward will rest easily lulled into the bed built onto the false security he so desperately seeks'

She covered his hand with hers, feeling their intertwined weights protecting the beggining of their glorious legacy, now safely tucked by the blanketing darkness that lay beyond the guttering candles, _until it would rise glorious like the three suns at Mortimer's Cross, humbling all men in its blinding promise . How fortunate he is, saddled with a wife who does not shirk glory for comfort._ Glory... For a matter of moments her mind was throttled to Rivers and his son, mechanically it reclaimed its place before guilt could 'England will be ready then, and only then could Camelot be reborn, in all its bygone beauty. Arthur rose in you, now as England needed' she said with the luxury of earnestness not necessity. If it were not for his mention of the child, she would have forgotten its role in all of this. Premonitions were now matched. She now stood witness to his beam, eerie in its small belonging.

'Why do you look at me like this?' she whispered perplexed, by then the passage of time had snuffed out the orange light, leaving only silver beams for them to make any likeness of each other, nevertheless his countenance shone, pure in its bareness.

The soft sigh that followed hid an unexampled longing better than it did his amusement. A kin of numbing dolour, but through whose clasp seeped joys plangent, like sands, rushing the tighter they are gripped. 'I shudder to think what you will ask if I ever look upon you in anger' he murmured. 'My do you have a knack at reading expressions' he replied in a sarcasm that resounded far too gently to be playfully intended.

'Why, but the same could be said for you' she chided sighing 'You roam these halls, looking for what? Lancastrian bribes in father's log books? Secret promises to Edward in letters? Look about you, I am not alone in my love for you'

'You mean Margaret? I should hope so, but from her letters, I can see that Charles has claimed all her affections. A child shall come and I will be forgotten' he said sadly

'Your mother then, George' said her deep voice, twice older than her years 'That supper summer past your brother said-'

'Edward always believes he knows what tricks to employ, to get me to recant' interjected George looking out onto the gilded edges of some thirty rustling hedges 'He would stoop so low. To use her name as bait when the world knows how it was Richard she favoured, the one she praised who bore our father's features and was as diligent as her in anything he laid his hands on', with a yawn escaping him, he rubbed his eyes feeling them drop. He stared at his fist which now bore three fallen eyelashes, all curled and dark.

He blew them away recalling the same three wishes he always prayed upon, while her gaze was briefly dropped, scratching at the emblazoned roses bobbing at her hem, finding their point of strain. _What would Edward know anyway?, it is not as if he had been his brother at Fotheringhay or Ludlow. Watching him grow into this man. I hasten the days when George will see that my love for him strangles - nay, could drown the love of a court. A sea crashing into a road hole, one a loaded waggon could ride over with ease._

'I confess I can not sleep, the cold does not agree with me' she heard him say and quietened with an offer to join her.

'These hours have made a different character of my proprietous wife, what would the lady Anne say to that or you wandering about in this cloth' he chuckled drawing a hand to his chest, imitating her indignant gesture of choice.

'She would say it would do none good to have you dozing off on father when your brother bids you genuflect next morrow, anyhow, I am hers to command no longer' she said straining for the dog, as her father's patters made themselves heard, inching towards the kitchens for a crumb or two of raspberry pie. A habit even her mother did not know of.

She stifled an amusement at George's initial fright before they scurried off like two miscreant children. Inside, the pup leapt from her hold, the silk from her head misplaced itself upon its nail. 'Come, leave your hair fall, it's such a rare sight for me that I sometimes forget we are wed' said George

With a nod she acquiesced, the featherbed was colder than when last left. 'As it were, the woes of having war marry us. I would have willed that I remained young Duchess for longer, before becoming a mother on the eve of her consignment'

George was clearly amused by her peculiarity, this woman who seemed to have revelled these months past, belly thrust forward, hands shielding it with every step she took 'But you seem eager for this child'

'Yes, but I would much rather have had my husband for longer as I did in Calais' the usual good-humoured simper twisted into what could nearly be said to be a wicked grin.

'I fear you are becoming wanton. Tell me, have I given you a smile to take to court tommorow?' he jested waving off the candles. He drew her into his arms, pressing himself against her, she matched him ardently as they kissed, tongues grasping at each others in frustration.

'You know, mother and Anne have accused me of mischief since having known you' she then delighted in saying 'and I do not think it would be well-recieved. I thought a lady does not smile at court'

'Have you already forgotten? all is gay now. Edward would not have people recall the soberness of Henry's time'

Across them, the mercer houses were settling into the second sleep, the yellow light through the glass stilting with each snuffed torch, She turned to him when the cold lunar glow took over. 'Will we have smiling and revelries at our court?'

'For certes, but not for those old enough for it to turn my stomach. Yours could never, no matter how advanced you would be in your years. I could not imagine you haggard'. He murmured himself to sleep, recounting his waking dreams as he buried his head deep in the nook between her belly and bosom.

She wrapped her hair about his shoulders like a midnight mantle of protection and felt her body drift as her mind made an attempt to depict him as an old man. Her imagination failed and the face beneath her eyelids would not mature like everyone else's. she clung to him tighter as she drifted off.

Mercifully, court had broken, all mummers complicit in that performance of peace scattered to their usual selves. Flurries of snow bouncing to the wind's tune, piled onto the grass in hundreds with every low note. Where Isabel stood, she knew that by Compline the hoare ground would rise, crashing against the flying buttresses about the quadrangle, like corpses on a battlefield come alive. Only in angular Westminster was god so.

Before returning to her chambers, she chanced upon a disappearing figure, shoulders hunched against the wind, his black cape leaving furrows through the snow. 'Earl Rivers-'

He turned, none too reticent 'Your Grace?' The wool in her strammel cloak shifted as she produced _The Book of the City of Ladies_, it lay heavy in her hand 'Here, may your mother have it back. I give her thanks for lending it to me, entrusting me, tell her that. Gramercy to you too, for telling me of it' she spoke quickly, her body already turning away.

'What did you make of it?' His tone lightened at her surprise. _What I make of anything is that I did not think to have it returned to you under those circumstances. _Inordinate favour has been shown to her uncle of Northumberland, if whispers were true then his son would be given the dukedom of Bedford, and Jacquetta Rivers would now be (as she were in truth) mere countess, her days as Lancastrian royal duchess extinguished beyond doubt.

She, roped between father and husband, now dangled like the hanged man on tarot cards. _Father would now have his Neville heir, he does not particularly know nor love this nephew, though such considerations pale in father's mind when set against the shining legacy. The son of York stands securely on the throne and if it be through uncle John that father may stay sheltered in Edward's golden rays, then why pull George and I from the shadows. A chord is ready for the snip. Oh Woodville, you may think I have won this day, because we are pardoned as your father and brother lie unavenged. No no, George and I have not. For reason of the king's cunning that is. Foresee for your future what I see in my own._

'I think it a welcome rebuttal to _Le_ _Roman de la Rose_, I liked how Lady Reason came first, built the city foundations. One sees how a logical mind makes for a sturdier shield than courtesy or beauty' Isabel's contempt for the temptress, La Rose, was evident. Yet, Anthony nodded with approval. Guileless eyes as his father's showed that he saw his sister as anything but. _I hope to god that to some, I as well am more than Lady Wealth_.

Months ago, Isabel found he was the only Woodville she was not averse to and apart from George and her FitzHugh cousins, whenever they did visit, the only person who had not avoided her, fearful of the allusions acquaintance with her would invite.

'Still, it does does not flow with beauteous images like in _Le Roman_. I am unsure if it will ever be as popular' he said meaning no doubt Christine de Pizan's beliefs and how they were made hods of earth therein.

'Yes, but it uglies all that was described beautiful in other literatures, implicitly by way of its direct criticism. So any wall or house in that city would therefore be the more beautiful' her younger self would shake her head at her, the girl whose world was walled by tapestries and illuminations. An unmoving life pre-ordained to be beautiful in presence.

'You see, I do wonder if the general man would be capable of your deft analysis' he said courteously

'The general man?' Isabel's puzzlement gave him the opportunity to lift his mood by explaining 'Yes, the Duchess of Burgundy has made use of my introducing of William Caxton to her. She is now his patroness. If such a printing enterprise were successful, such literatures would come in the hands of the general man. You know of him?'

_George knows him. Rather, he did - as a boy during his exile._ Isabel could not now speak of how she came upon this development when she met the Duchess in Calais. Less could she recount George's stories of that room in Caxton's Bruges house where what lay in the eyes of an eight year old, was a contraption like a wooden beast. How with the yank of a handle, entire pages would emerge as done amidst clouds of steam. _Like alchemy but for the thought she recalled him once telling her_. What she revealed was 'Indeed, I have heard him talked about. An honourable pursuit it is, though I can see it changing much'.

'Your grace, know that I do not lay at your feet the burdens of your father and husband's actions' he offered as if the power vested in him alone to exonerate her.

_I see change does not petrify this one. In this prosperous age of beauty and learning, shall the new overawe the ancient. Are we to be obsolete? _She wished she would ask this remarkable Duchess Margaret, now sister to them all, if she had ever considered the sacrifices. 'My Lord Rivers, would not Lady Rectitude say that it would be dishonest for women such as I to claim frailty when it suits us to distance our reputation from our husband's and father's? You are ever-so kind to say so and while filial and wifely piety incur a debt of responsibility unto me, I nevertheless shall not abandon justice and reason' Isabel inclined her head before she took her leave. Her gilded veil, masking her eyes and unspoken promises.


	8. When Neville Married Plantagenet: Cecily

**22nd November 1469**

Just as court was about to break and the waning light cowered at the cold snap outside, then entered her goddaughter in hand with her son. When the gentler lady Anne smiled all defects were said to be erased, Isabel did rarely. Each knew their strengths. This sext came and yet it was both she and her son who bore grins that flashed sharply as the clashes in their damasked cloths. Terre verte were the doublet and gown like the livery of Clarence. _A fitting colour for the son that ne'er looked to his elder brother for idolation nor any forebearer of theirs. Only his saintly namesake or Gawain, tester of knights would do. Did not St Denis too, like the green knight, carry his severed head in the nook of his arm, where flowers grew beneath his feet whence he thread?_

For a surety, her goddaughter appeared to think they did for her, as she long-limbed (her father's daughter indeed) gaited in large strides to match with her son. _But St Denis is too French. Perchance she fancies herself Olwen from Mabinogion instead. More Briton, more Arthurian. _Isabel did not roll her hips sensuously like ladies loosely did in Edward's presence, but paced with proud finesse. The Bull of Clarence was pinned centerer on George's brocaded crosses and vines than it lay in Isabel's matching brooch. Cecily's eyes caught it with the Neville Red on George's hose and the image of a target instinctively swam up before her.

She drew away, twisting her fingers on one hand while shielding it from impropriety beneath the other. _My boy, sometimes I do believe you do not live in the same world as we. Where all men I know yearn to survive, you act as if that were not the fundament to living. _George knelt with Isabel in unison, where a week ago he did the same with his new father of Warwick. The Bears, staffs and bulls in her hem crumpled in an indecipherable mound of colours against the Plantagenet and Neville arms emblazoned on her skirt.

After an inclination of Cecily's head towards her son, the king's brown eyes seeking her own across the room to be directed, he gathered both the Clarences in his arms. He rubbed the Duchess' small back upsetting the dense Arctic fox fur at her linings, making her wince as George let out a couch as a large hand slapped him on the back in bonhomie. 'Most gracious lady, be welcome at our court as our beloved sister of York', he glanced down at the curvature she made no effort in concealing, he said ever more quietly and coaxingly 'I see felicitations are in order, madame. Is it a niece or a nephew you are to give me?'

'I pray that when it may be born, it posses the sex your grace desire' replied Isabel politely, Cecily would have guffawed at that, if she were elsewhere and knew how. _Edward, the son with a natural talent at the baleful word for the kin, where others see only an over-familiarity of manner. _Chided him often and decisively Cecily did: 'do not refill the goblet of the man you call for audience more oft than thrice unless he ask', 'use a commissioner when collecting benevolences from merchants, do not write nor go yourself as if an equal', 'prithee tell me you did not marry Lady Grey'. All but the latter, to which he responded with taciturnity were accepted with a free smile and forgotten by him as quickly as they were said.

'And If what I desire is for a companion to the princesses Elizabeth, Mary and Cecily?' Cecily could see the eyes suddenly let out in that fine long face, stunned, Isabel took a step back and said flatly: 'then it be by god that your will shall be delivered, if it were up to us mothers to make that selection, in what different passes we would find ourselves in-'. The more brazen of courtiers shot a look at the much changed queen and how she clenched her fists about the throne's arms. _She has become George's wife. It now matter not whether In the carrying tides of that remark, what were betokened were the same as that which were meant. The difference, if existing would affect the content of the waters, but it will not change its force. Christ have mercy on them. Wherefore she garbed herself thus?-_ Cecily raised her head to look at her again: her henin where rubies and emeralds whirled about its cream base and the gauze mounted on wires soared above even the queen's, where the black velvety fall broached with ex honore de clare fell as richly as any crown. _Needed the court reminding of the lack of male heir? Reminding of the Clarences' power?_ Cecily noted John of Norfolk's interest piqued by the shifting in the room, the prolictivity in his blue eyes libidinous. Nothing can be out of the question now, not now with this cousin of Clarence who was ever more willing to help his ilk, whatever it took for him to be king.

'_Today is my saint's day'_ thought Cecily quietly to herself, remarking how it had gone thoroughly unnoticed. She decided that after supper with George, when her will should temper his nerves like water for a heated sword fresh from the forge, they could honour St Cecilia's musical gift with a reprise of the melodies of old. When all attendants would be dismissed, she hoped he would accompany her cittern on his recorder as they once used to. It had soothed her so some ten years ago.

It was moons later that Cecily again spoke to that son in private, the ground was still hoary with what promised to be a laboriously long winter. Even the Scarlett tiles of the turrets of Baynard Castle's were steeped in true frost, darkened to a murky brown admist the wet whirling hoare outside. she felt George's hands grow clammy and was reminded of how he still hated the cold as when he was a child.

'Mome, why are you all of a sudden fussing over my hair?' he asked as she moved on to straightening a golden thread that lay askew from his cloak lining. He was the only one of her sons she did not chastise for not addressing her 'lady mother', unobservant to this hierarchy, like all that he did not agree with, then as now he was the least pliable of all her children. An honest rapport had nevertheless established itself between them, and she was never gladder of it than today.

'I have asked Edward to luncheon with us. Him only' she said sitting him beside her 'I would that you tell him what you told me. It is high time you behave as the brothers the creator made you' she could see him turning away and crossing his arms, she half-expected, a pout when she guided him back to face her. He only stared at her turbulently with his large eyes, she could detect faint worry in his voice when he said 'Have you yet not accepted my apologies, when shall my penance end, mome? I now know it was a slander but I have said my forgivenesses and you have accepted them until I saw you go blue in the face!'

'Jesus wept, I am not punishing you George! As for talk of my infidelity, I am beggining to see my troublesome nephew in all this more than you. It makes no matter now, it is god's judgement that concerns me and Parliament's judgement for the better, did not believe it, as we have all clearly seen' she said tersely enough for it to warn, but now fearing she was causing him upset. 'Let this be a lesson on the nature of the spoken word and how it hangs forever, young or old as you were when you said it'. She now looked at him expectantly.

'The one who conceals hatred has lying lips, and whoever utters slander is a fool' recited George 'Proverbs 10:18, but truly you understand-' They were interrupted by the thump of Edward's steps quickly approaching. She shot him a look she hoped he could read as affirmative.

'Brother' they offered each other through gritted teeth

They took their places on the chaises Cecily laid out facing each other, she herself was seated across them, in her front and between them the fire gurgled and spat, its amber sinews flailing desperately in heating the solar.

Edward, resting his flushed face over his fists looked intently at George with the intelligent brown eyes of their mother 'I did not think to find you here George, you have been amiss of late. Our cousin is already departed to Middleham'

Instinctively George rolled back, burying himself into the satined cushions 'I had been making preparations to return to Tutbury, I think the time fit for my lady wife to accustom herself with the runnings of my estates, when she leaves her confinement of course'

'Ha yes, the Lady Isabel, our lady mother tells me that she made an impression on Margaret. An intelligent creature she says...' Edward was trailing off. Cecily shuffled her heavy jet skirts. _You have never read me quite well, but for the love of god do not speak of the marriage fine to George._ She coughed and George eyed her with the suspicious attentiveness as he was wont to do. '...I'll leave to our sister, the judgement of characters, but I do not think Lady Isabel likes me much. Extend her my apologies if I have offended her in any way'

'If you are referring to your banter at Warwick Castle the summer past. Do not worry brother, she is not wroth at you, but her person is of an easily vexed nature' George lied courteously and after a moment's pause returned hopefully with, 'But brother, I should like to go to Ireland thereafter when the sea is tame'

'To Ireland George?' asked a puzzled Edward. A little smile visited Cecily when she said 'Yes Edward, George told me at length of his desire to take up his lieutenant duty in truth. Oh but how the Irish shall be reminded of your father (god rest his soul) when a son of York returns among them' _The Irish Child we would jokingly call him when he was an over-enthused bairn, terrorising his nurse Joan and taking off with his horse whenever it suited him. Half-a-lifetime ago when his hair still held a runnish tinge and the land grew green with promise._ 'One of us' she remembered the celts shouting as she held the swaddling brought to be christened in their churches. The great Earls of Desmond and Ormond, his godfathers, had loomed above the babe as ominous whispers of a 'son of ireland' echoed in every hollow of that Dublin Dominican Priory, around them and in her and the smiling Duke of York, king to be. 'In any case, should Worcester truly be the one granted this charge, him the butcher of England? George has grown Edward'

'George-' he started slowly as if the aforementioned were not among them 'Has still much to learn, lady mother. Do not think I give him no credit, indeed may I offer some by candidly proffering how I do see much of myself in him when I was at his youth? But, Desmond's death left too large a vacuus and I believe it a task beyond anyone but the most seasoned of men. One no charm, no matter how radiant be George's can placate'. It disdained and impressed her to see him then lay expectant of an ensuing outburst from his younger brother, brilliant eyes in a purple-capped brunette head, which now lolled at rest onto his upturned wrist.

The rebuttal: 'The exactions were most unwise. Come now brother, would you suppress their rights to their names and fishing rights and not expect opposition from below? This is the making of martyrs'. Though obvious, this remarks had lain undetected for unimplicating the Queen's name. Edward was growing weary against the acclamaitions still held by many of how it was his Elizabeth that procured the execution of Clarence's god-brother, the beloved and iconic Desmond. They many and small fell upon like flurries of snow on his patience, which like a bowed branch, would snap the mound in halves if tested again.

This was not to be the day, for Cecily made certain that her younger son had shed the urge to push his conspiracies, in having made herself the sole and patient recipient to them all already. She had asked him how much of this he told to Warwick's daughter, 'for she seems ever a doting daughter to her sire' she had cautioned him last they met. 'Mome, when you Neville married Plantagenet, did your allegiance not lie with the latter? Why would it be different with the Lady Belle?'. _He is warry still of my having tried to dissuade him at Sandwich before he sailed to his wedding. I pray my goddaughter was not made to believe I did not want her for a daughter by marriage._ _Two women more different have never been. But by Jove, the ripples of that marriage are every bit as malignant as the ones set by Jacquetta's girl._

'I was not happy with those reforms, perhaps it is Ulster and our De Burgh blood that makes me too carry some love for the Gaels. Nevertheless George..' he said with lazy confidence 'You remain green. Youth is a delicate flower, and when touched stunted, wholly confined as a thing forgone to what we call childhood. I confess I was never one to relish the haggardly responsibility of rulership, my birthright sat on me the crowns and sceptres of kingship not any desire of my own. Richard and you, you both ever so call for this burden, now the former is a boy no longer. As for you, withdrawn these years past, must count your spirit spared' his warm eyes squinted at George's for a semblance of understanding, where it was apparent broiled only restlessness. Cecily could see him too glance at her before he spoke 'Or perhaps, I mark you wrong. Come then brother, if you are determined to harden like Richard I promise to involve you in matters of state, a chamberlaincy perhaps'

Cecily noted how George looked noticeably crestfallen, a sullen face amidst the gold embroidery about his cloaks, caps and tresses. 'Some advice too perhaps' she heard Edward then say 'I would not have handled that affair with Caister Castle and Norfolk as you did when I was under your custody. It was so apparent that the siege was naught but a desperate attempt of Mowbray to save himself from his frayed finances'

'Not honourable?, I had written back to Margaret Paston, and to Norfolk ordering that their retainers are to leave Caister unmolested' protested George 'We owe our kinsmen repayement for their loyalties'

'Daubenay, their loyal servant was still slain. Your good intentions notwithstanding' The jittering of the oriel windows grew into an incessant rattle as icy winds ran with the tension raising into the room, from the shadowed corner where she previously believed them she banished them.

'Enough you two' she wanted to snap, but instead said calmly, reaching for their hands as if in a congregation 'It is both a mother's blessing and curse to be endowed with such intelligent boys' she turned to each when addressing them 'Edward, no son of York, less your father, could possibly resign himself to a mere ornament. You are surely now satisfied that George is possessed of some talents. Perchance if they were directed for good, it would benefit the realm, think you not hmm? George, the opportunity has come for you to show yourself a man for peace, for some it is the harder task, it is nevertheless the more important mark of kingship. If you find my utterance of this truism insulting to your intelligence, then make sure my nephew of Warwick also understands this'

Her pout, that age made lovelier into a semblance of a rose, formed into 'that secret motherly smile' (as her sons liked to call it), it was such a rare sight that the boys' free hands reached across to each other's arms in a show of conciliation. George was the first 'Peace, lady mother, it would sadden me to see your efforts unhonoured. Pardie brother'

'See your apology as accepted. I also beg your forgiveness for any trespasses I may have made against you' Edward followed with his famed magnanimousity.

'Say, I hear the rings for Compline. How about we go yonder to St Paul's to pray for your success against the Lincolnshire rebels. An offering, if you will, dear brother' said George saccharinely. Edward nodded amiably and uplifted by his brother's equally famed winning smile accepted his hand. The hands reunited after they drew their fur-trimmed cloaks tighter about them in preparation for a combatting wind.

Not insulted, but pleased Cecily was, that they did not extend the invitation to her. _I shall leave them to each other to do the rest, my work is done_. She was once more served a cruel reminder of her own foregone youth when she bent with some difficulty for her book of hours. As her shrinking figure paced underneath the countless inverted vaults to her chapel she recalled a conversation she had long buried with her husband regarding the complexities of conflict and the unseen historical forces at play._ '_ _This is not a tale of fate you loveable fool. It is one of a king's neglect for a cousin and brother who react like hurt children when they feel unloved' _she thought, and would rephrase and repeat to herself in the coming weeks until it brought some comfort.


End file.
